


Defiance & Destiny

by letmetellyouaboutmyfeels



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: A Study in Unreliable Narrators, Alternate Universe - Regency, Angst with a Happy Ending, Banter, Bickering, Comedy of Errors, F/F, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Idiots in Love, Intricate Rituals, M/M, Multi, Non-Linear Narrative, Romantic Entanglements of Every Sort, Sexual Tension, Shameless Abuse of Jane Austen Quotes, Slow Burn, So much bickering, Time Skips, Time to Play Guess Who is Which Austen Character, Tissaia is the Epitome of the Hoe Don't Do It Meme, it's all about the hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:47:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 104,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26228935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letmetellyouaboutmyfeels/pseuds/letmetellyouaboutmyfeels
Summary: When Geralt of Rivia returns to England after a prolonged absence, he and Jaskier, an aspiring bard, are forced to confront the pride and prejudice that flung them apart.Meanwhile, Lady Yennefer of Vengerberg is beginning to wonder if there is more to life than being handsome, clever, and rich.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Sabrina Glevissig/Triss Merigold, Tissaia de Vries/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 353
Kudos: 274





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the Pride & Prejudice, Emma, and Persuasion mash up that nobody asked for but I decided to sell my soul over anyway. However, my hope is that even if you don't know Austen, you will be able to enjoy this monster of a fic.

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single Witcher in possession of a good few years of experience, must be in want of a bard.

However little known the feelings or views of such a Witcher may be on his first undertaking a new contract, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding neighborhood, that he is considered the rightful property of some one or other of their bards.

Triss Merigold was the friendliest girl in the county and so had the news as soon as it could be discovered, and hurried to tell the person she knew would most like to hear of it.

“Jaskier!” She burst into his study without a thought and ignored her brother’s squawk of indignation at being interrupted. “Have you heard? There are two Witchers coming into the county to hunt a leshen!”

“I hadn’t heard,” Jaskier said. He hoped the heat he felt stayed in his chest and didn’t move up to his face and betray him.

“Well?” Triss smiled excitedly. She didn’t know how much it pained him—no one knew. No one could know. Jaskier sometimes suspected that there were one or two sharp-eyed people who’d guessed _something_ … but the full scope of his regret, and his shame, were known only to himself and the other person who had shared in it.

And that person had quit England over a year ago. It was quite likely they would never return.

“Are you not excited? This is what we were hoping for!” Triss took his hands. “Now that the title has been passed to Sabrina there is nothing to stop you from partnering with one of them. Jaskier, you must arrange to meet them, you must let them know you are a bard in search of a Witcher! I long to see you as happy as Sabrina and myself.”

“My dear Triss, nobody can be as happy as you and Sabrina,” Jaskier pointed out. He squeezed her hands. “Such love only happens quite rarely. It’s not every couple that I gift a ballad to, you know.”

“If Pavetta can convince her mother to let her marry a man cursed to look like a hedgehog, then we can find a Witcher for you,” Triss declared stoutly. She stood up. “I must tell darling Sabrina, I know she’ll be just as excited for you as I am! Two Witchers!”

Triss fluttered her hands like they were butterflies and flew from the room. Only Triss could have gotten away with calling Sabrina ‘darling’, but then, nobody else would ever have dared to try.

Jaskier slowly released the breath he had been holding. Two Witchers, neither of whom were known to them. If one of them had been… but no. Triss would have said. Triss was the particular friend of Witchers. She of all people would know if—

Unless—

Yennefer might also know, but she would never deign to tell him and Jaskier would never deign to ask her. He would rather impugn himself in front of Calanthe. He would rather duet with Valdo Marx. He would rather—

Jaskier turned back to the song he was composing. It had been enough time that the few who knew of his acquaintance with the subjects in question would not suspect them to be the object of the song, and he thought it would be an excellent debut after his months of frustration. It would be a new start. A way to not only remind the world of what he could do, but a sort of public audition for the two Witchers now taking up residence in the county.

After all, it had been a year. It was time to move on.

He thought he would title the piece _Her Sweet Kiss._

* * *

Geralt yanked his sword out of the drowner and grimaced.

It was a truth universally acknowledged that a Witcher in possession of a completed job must be in want of a bath.

Roach whinnied.

“I know.” Geralt stood up, wiping away some of the grime, and swung his sword to behead the creature. Without a bard to help him establish his reputation and inspire trust and joy towards him in townspeople, he had to make sure he brought back proof that he’d done the job he’d promised.

All of this would’ve been much easier if a bard had been his companion. The world had changed. Civilization and monsters interacted more than ever, in some ways that were mundane and commonplace, and in some ways that were still threatening. But gone, for the most part, were the untamed wilds with the dark thick woods filled with lurking monsters behind every tree.

To survive, Witchers had adjusted, and so now Witchers got by with a bard as their barker and publicist, spreading their name and exploits among the people so that they could get the best contracts from the richest families.

Geratl hated what a popularity game it had all become. After an early disappointment, he had determined he would never partner with a bard, that there was simply no point. He had undergone extra mutations, extra tests—surely he could make his own way without assistance.

He had done all right for himself. He had made friends in high places and so had kept up a good reputation, bardless though he was. Many had attempted to win his partnership, but he’d always known he could only entrust such an office to someone who won his sincere affection, and what sort of bard could possibly do that? Bards were focused on one thing only, which was selling the best story. There was nothing of truth or respect in any of them.

Except…

That second hope, though, had been dashed. The only true hope he’d ever had. And it was not through some fault of character but rather his own stupid pride and manner that had cost him his bardic partner.

Not only his partner, but his happiness.

There was a very good reason he’d fled England.

Geralt was just placing the wrapped drowner head in the saddlebag when the air crackled and spun out, a portal appearing before him.

He knew instantly who was going to step through. Her portals were quite distinctive, as was the rest of her.

“Yen.”

“Geralt.” Yennefer of Vengerburg was said to be the most powerful sorceress in England, if not in Europe altogether. At one time they had pursued one another, and it was for the best that it had not worked out—but Geralt could admit that in the darker periods of his loss, he had considered seeking the familiar comfort of her arms.

“The time has come,” Yennefer told him. “Pavetta and Duny were caught out at sea. One of Napoleon’s, they believe. Calanthe has need of you. For Ciri.”

Geralt turned away, adjusting the saddle bags. But the Lady of Chaos was not so easily deterred. “She is your Child of Surprise, Geralt. Your _ward_. You would not dare avoid your destiny.”

It wasn’t destiny he feared, but something, some _one_ , much more dangerous.

“Geralt.” Yennefer’s voice grew soft. “She has her mother’s magic.”

Geralt expressed his thoughts aloud, a habit he rarely undertook.

“…fuck.”


	2. Chapter 2

Jaskier found his sister seated, as was her wont, in the library. Sabrina had been a child of whom their parents had despaired ever since her birth, with her insistence on learning the management of land and the works of Latin rather than securing herself a good match in marriage.

Then again, Jaskier himself had been a disappointment since his birth. He had never wished to rise to the position of viscount and had declared from a young age that he would be a bard. Father and Mother had allowed such frivolities at Oxenfurt, considering it a part of the follies of youth, but once he had graduated there had been an expectation that he would put aside such nonsense.

They had both benefited from the deaths of their parents.

“Julian.” Sabrina paused at her desk, no doubt going over the family accounts. “Did Triss not ask you to accompany her?”

“Accompany her where? I cannot always be her charity case.”

“You are far from a charity case.” Sabrina spoke firmly.

“Sabrina, dearest Sabrina, light of my life, my better half…” Jaskier flung himself onto the couch. “I’ve been lounging about the house and writing the most annoying poetry for a year, I’m well aware I’ve been annoying you. Bothering you during your first year of marriage.”

“You graciously looked after Lettenhove estate while we went on three months of honeymoon, Julian, and for goodness’ sake stop rolling around on the new upholstery.”

Only his sister could get away with calling him _Julian_. To everyone else he was _Jaskier,_ his bard name.

If only he could _be_ a bard.

“Where _did_ your dearest wife run off to?” Jaskier asked.

“To call upon Calanthe, of course,” Sabrina replied. “For she is the one hosting the two Witchers who have come to deal with our leshen problem.”

“My understanding of leshens is they are not to be trifled with, are they up to the task?”

If they were, then they would be worth Jaskier’s time. He would write them a ballad and his name would at last be worth something.

“They come from Kaer Morhen and Calanthe has deigned to receive them, so they must be.” Sabrina paused. “It is said, although I do not know for certain, that they came… with a letter of recommendation from Geralt of Rivia.”

“Ah.”

Sabrina’s eyes did not leave her papers. She was too composed for that. “We are not certain that their dispositions will be the same as his. I would not fear a repeat of the frustrations you found it necessary to endure last year.”

“I gave equal frustration in my turn,” Jaskier felt bound to point out.

If only his sister knew the full extent of the frustrations he and Geralt had given one another. She would…

Well. She would scold him for an entire week, is what she would do, and not even the sweet smiles and warmth of her wife would be able to curb her temper.

As if summoned by Jaskier’s thoughts, Triss herself entered the room.

Sabina’s demeanor did not change, at least not according to the eyes of most, but Jaskier had grown up with her. He knew how to read the change in her posture and the dipping of her pen, the warmth slipping into her eyes.

Triss, after a year, and with greater intimacy than Jaskier at her disposal, had more than learnt how to do the same.

“Darling, do me a favor and don’t work yourself to death,” Triss announced. This was accompanied by such touches that Jaskier politely found a sudden and avid interest in the embroidery on a pillow.

“Well?” Sabrina asked once her mouth was no longer otherwise occupied. “What are they like?”

“Oh, Eskel and Lambert are dears, truly, absolute lambs. They gave me a letter from Geralt, which I did not expect and was quite pleasing, he wishes you well and pays you his compliments.” Triss seated herself scandalously on Sabrina’s desk, so that her wife had no opportunity to continue her letters. “I think you will like Eskel mightily, everyone does, he’s quite affable. Lambert takes some getting used to but that is what we have Jaskier for. He’ll tease a smile out of him. He was able to tease smiles out of Geralt.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” Jaskier replied, a bald-faced lie that Triss luckily could not call him out on.

“Calanthe has been kind enough to invite us to a small ball in a few days’ time to welcome them. Her granddaughter is in need of a distraction anyhow, poor thing.”

“It is true, then? About Pavetta?”

“Sadly. I suspect it to be the reason Calanthe has sent for the Witchers, you know I think she would have gone after the leshen herself—”

“A suicide mission if there ever was one—”

“But Mr. Tuirseach was able to dissuade her and so the Witchers were sent for instead. At least it’s a distraction for her.”

“Thank God for Eist or that woman would have gotten herself killed years ago.”

“Sabrina!” Triss lightly hit her with her gloves. “Calanthe Riannon is renowned for a reason.”

“She’s renowned for courage, not for common sense,” Sabrina replied with her trademark firmness.

Triss merely laughed.

That had been the moment Jaskier had known Triss was the one for his sister—when Triss had stared Sabrina’s chilly assertions in the face and laughed at them.

“What do you think, brother mine?” Triss asked. “Is a ball not just the thing?”

“If it means I get to dance with you, Triss, then it certainly is.”

“Perhaps you will play us a ballad. I’ve seen you scribbling away often enough.”

Jaskier smiled. “Perhaps I will.”

* * *

Yennefer had wanted to insist upon taking Geralt back by portal, but the man was as stubborn now as he had been a year ago and insisted upon completing his contract first. He had affairs to settle, he assured her, and would make his way to England presently.

“It will take you a month to get here if I do not take you,” Yennefer had reasoned with him.

“Hmm.”

It was at last settled that she would return for Geralt in a few days’ time.

Miss de Vries was in her drawing room, as was usual. “I have secured him!”

“Yenna.” Tissaia de Vries was the head sorceress of Aretuza. She alone called Yennefer by that name, and she alone could use that scolding tone with Yennefer now. “Did Lady Rhiannon ask you to fetch Geralt for her?”

“No, but she has need of him. I knew the moment I heard the news.” Yennefer dropped down onto the couch and stretched out her legs. “I shall return to pick him up in three days’ time.”

“Oh, just in time for the ball, you know how Geralt so enjoys those.” Tissaia’s tone was so dry that Yennefer could feel her own mouth drying up in response.

“Honestly, Miss de Vries, you would think that I had done something to cross Calanthe’s honor, rather than done her a judicious favor.”

“Lady Rhiannon will not appreciate a sorceress meddling in her affairs, no matter how close you are to Geralt. She will take it as a slight upon herself, that you thought to do what she could not.” Tissaia put down her book. “Our relations with Lady Rhiannon and the estate of Cintra are quite strained enough already. Has nothing in the last year taught you not to meddle?”

“I am not matchmaking again!” Yennefer sat up. “I am quite done with all of that. I learned my lesson well enough, and not even you could find a romantic design in my summoning Geralt. I only wish to be of service to Cintra and show that we can indeed be friends. She will need us, to train Cirilla.”

“She needs _Geralt_ , as Cirilla’s guardian. Whether she _wants_ us or not is up to her discretion.” Tissaia picked up her book again. “Someday, Yenna, you will try to grasp everything you want and so lose what you truly need.”

“And someday you will see that I no longer am a child in need of your lectures.” Yennefer stood up. “If you are determined to be boring, I am going to go teach herbology to the students.”

“If you’d be so kind as to not make them hallucinate again, I would appreciate it,” Tissaia called after her.

What did Tissaia know, anyhow? She had been as stubborn as Calanthe in keeping Cintra and Aretuza at odds. Yennefer was past all of her mistakes from last year—and yes, now she could admit to herself, with some time and distance softening her pride, that she had made quite a few… missteps. But that was all in the past, now.

Now, her only aim was to mend the rift between sorcery and the gentry, and that, she was sure, she could manage quite well.

* * *

The moment Jaskier stepped into the ballroom of Cintra, he cast his gaze about for Yennefer. He hoped to catch her before the night grew too long, so that he could have her honest assessment of the two new Witchers.

Many would be surprised to learn that Lady Yennefer and young Mr. Pankratz were secretly each delighted to learn the other would be in attendance, for it was well-known that each one hated the other with a virulent passion, and had done so ever since their first meeting. Some less kind tongues wagged that it had something to do with Geralt of Rivia, but such tongues did not dare say so in the presence of either party.

The truth was that both Yennefer and Jaskier, while fond of unleashing their wit upon one another, had found to their dismay that they were often the only ones possessed of equal intellect in the room. And so, after the usual barbs were thrown, they would settle down and resolve to further their enjoyment by joining forces and hating other people together.

“Ah! Bard!” Yennefer spotted him before he saw her and a wine glass was pressed into his hand. “How bold of you to continue to wear last year’s fashions. I see you are taking our king’s insistence on economy during the war to heart.”

“Ahh, Yennefer, I’m afraid not all of us can be so frivolous with our whims and our coffers. Many of us have responsibilities, and common sense.” Jaskier eyed her becoming black gown. “Is that French silk?”

“I would never wear something so anti-patriotic.” Yennefer’s smile was sharp as a serpent’s tooth. “But I _do_ know how to choose colors that compliment my skin tone.”

Jaskier knew for a fact he looked stunning in bright red, thanks very much. “I—”

“Two minutes of peace,” Tissaia de Vries noted as she walked by them. “Two minutes, is that not too much to ask for?”

Jaskier was sensible enough to be properly terrified of the mistress of Aretuza and clammed up at once.

Yennefer was not.

“Miss de Vries!” she followed after her former tutor with a teasing lilt in her voice.

Jaskier was not left alone to fuss over his interrupted banter for long. Almost at once, he found none other than the mistress of the house walking towards him, with two men in tow.

“Mr. Pankratz.”

“Lady Rhiannon.” Jaskier bowed. “Please accept my deepest condolences.”

Calanthe was no longer in the bloom of youth, it was true. But never before had Jaskier seen her look… tired. “Thank you. Pavetta was always fond of your tunes.”

“Do you wish for me to play some?”

“No.” Calanthe’s voice was sharp, but then she softened. “I mean to say… none of her favorites. Please.”

“Of course. I have a new composition I was hoping to audition for you all tonight anyhow. And there are always the old standbys for dancing, which I’m sure Miss Rhiannon will want much of.”

“If you can succeed in getting her to dance, I shall take back every thing I ever said about you being pitchy.”

“ _I am not—_ I mean. That is to say. Thank you.”

“Mr. Pankratz is our local bard,” Calanthe said, turning towards the two men who followed her. “Allow me to introduce Eskel and Lambert, the Witchers I have hired.”

So _these_ were the two Witchers. Jaskier hadn’t recognized them without the all-black armor and white hair, but now that they stood closer he could see the distinctive wolf medallion of Kaer Morhen around their necks.

Ah, right, the white hair had been unique to Geralt. Apparently so was the armor.

The man on the left bowed to Jaskier. He had shaggy brown hair and a huge scar that sliced through his face, cutting his lips and nose in half. Clearly the result of a creature’s claws. He was not a man to be called handsome as a result, but Jaskier quite liked his eyes. He had a pleasing manner, in spite of the markings.

“Eskel of Kaer Morhen, at your service, Mr. Pankratz.”

“Please, Jaskier will do, it’s my bard name.”

“Buttercup?” the other man snorted. “Really?”

Jaskier held in his wince. “You must be Lambert.”

The tall man had his dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, with a slight widow’s peak and a chiseled face. “Aye. And you’re like the rest of the bards, always coming up with fanciful names.”

“Buttercups are poisonous,” Jaskier cheerfully pointed out, giving his most feral smile.

Eskel laughed. “He’s got you there.”

“I will leave you three to it,” Calanthe said, and she glided off to greet another guest.

“You have a Witcher, then?” Eskel asked.

“Not yet, no. My parents passed last year, and my sister was lately married. I’ve been quite busy in the handling of the funerary matters and handing the estate off to her.” Jaskier paused. “My sister-in-law is Triss Merigold.”

“Merigold?” Lambert scoffed. “Tssh. Well, I’m off to get some cold cuts.”

Eskel ignored his brother. “I’m rather in need of a bard myself. My apologies for Lambert’s manners. I doubt he’ll ever get a bard that way. But you said you would play something tonight?”

“Ah, yes.” Jaskier’s smile was genuine this time. “I confess I was hoping to put on a little show for the two of you. Hunting something as powerful as a leshen doesn’t happen every day, and I’d like to request the honor of being the person who immortalizes your hunt in a ballad.”

“Show us what you have and I’ll consider it.” Eskel grinned. “I’ve always liked Triss, any family of hers is someone worth knowing. But I’m surprised you haven’t gotten yourself a Witcher yet, little buttercup. My brother Geralt is a dear friend of our Triss and he was in this area only last year, were you not able to form a partnership?”

Jaskier’s throat went tight. “I’m afraid my time was otherwise occupied. My parents were quite set against my bardic pursuits and it wasn’t until their deaths that I was able to fully devote myself to the art.”

“More time to develop your skills,” Eskel said kindly. “And my condolences on your parents. It’s a hard thing, to lose someone.”

Jaskier was tempted to say that the loss of their parents was more of a relief to him and Sabrina than anything else. “Thank you. And how is it that you’ve gone so long without a bard?”

“Not everyone wants to put up with Li’l Bleater.”

“…who?”

“My goat.”

Jaskier laughed. “If such potential bards are put off by a _goat,_ they would never make it as a Witcher’s companion.”

“Oh, many of them are quite inclined to like him, I’m afraid it’s more that Li’l Bleater doesn’t tend to like _them_.”

“Jaskier!” Triss emerged from the crowd. “Come, let’s have some music! Strike up!”

“All right, all right.” Jaskier laughed as he was taken by the hand and led to the musician’s podium.

It was the first time he would have a chance to perform in a year, and his fingers shook ever so slightly as he strummed his lute. Whatever disappointments he’d suffered, whatever mistakes he’d made, nothing could take his love of music from him. He still had that, and he would use that, and fill his life with it.

From his position, he could see the whole ballroom—the young Miss Cirilla, looking too stoic and silent for a girl her age, and by her Eist Tuirseach, Calanthe’s steadfast friend (and, some said, potential suitor, if you believed the rumors that said he’d proposed to her three or five or a dozen times)—Sabrina with Triss, already on the dance floor—Lambert over by the punch table—Yennefer trading barbs with Lady Fringilla—Tissaia de Vries making her way towards them to break it up before magic rather than words started to be thrown—Calanthe stepping politely out onto the floor with Eskel—everyone assembled and waiting only for him.

Jaskier took a deep breath and struck up the first tune.

Within a few minutes, it was as though he had never stopped playing. The notes came back to him with the fluidity and ease of a dream. Valdo Marx, Geralt, and all the other regrettable things from last year fell away, his own fears about his career fell away, and all that was left was the music. He commanded the crowd, he brought laughter with his flourishes and winks, he was in his element.

He noted, of course, that Eskel kept throwing glances at him. Jaskier felt he would be happy to partner up with him. Witcher and bard partnerships were not inherently romantic. Indeed, most were not. He had no intention or expectations in that regard. But if he could impress Eskel with his own compositions, Jaskier was certain their tempers would be greatly complimentary for a professional, working relationship.

As the crowd quieted and people seemed to be in the mood for a rest, Jaskier felt the time was right for his song. It was melancholy but could be played either soft all the way through or include a powerful crescendo, perfect for an interlude of listening while everyone caught their breath (and caught up on the wine).

He scanned the crowd for Yennefer, but did not see her. Hopefully she was off taking in the night air or dealing with Aretuza matters. He did not think she would be offended, but he still had no wish to see her face when she first heard the lyrics.

Jaskier strummed the new tune, waiting for others to catch on that they did not recognize the melody before beginning to sing.

_The fairer sex, they often call it,_

_But her love’s as unfair as a crook…_

He had worked this song over and over until he’d been so sick of it he’d had to put it away for three months, and then he’d gotten it out and worked it over again. Now he was going to see if it was as good as he hoped.

_It steals all my reason,_

_Commits every treason,_

_Of logic, with naught but a look._

The crowd all turned towards him, one by one, until the entire audience listened with rapt attention. With Yennefer out of the room, Jaskier felt free to put in every bit of emotion, every moment of anger and yearning and self-loathing he’d felt for the past twelve months, into his performance.

He was so wrapped up in the song that it took him a moment to realize that the crowd had shifted again. Everyone was still staring at him, while simultaneously parting to make way for the two figures that strode into the room, right up to the musician’s podium. Right in front of him.

The first he recognized, having seen her and traded barbs with her but a few hours before. The second…

It was too late, too late to do anything except continue his song, too late to hide or halt or come up with new lyrics on the fly that would somehow disguise the meaning. All he could do was follow the thread, and finish the song as it was written.

_But the story is this,_

_She’ll destroy with her sweet kiss,_

_Her sweet kiss._

_The story is this,_

_She’ll destroy with her sweet kiss,_

_Her sweet kiss._

He let the last note linger, even as he found himself completely numb, unable to feel the rest of his body.

The White Wolf himself stared up at him. “Jaskier.”

Jaskier took a deep breath. “Hello, Geralt.”


	3. Chapter 3

_Two Years Earlier_

Jaskier loved a good ball.

It was the one place he could get away from Mother and Father, the one place he could be himself and people loved him for it, the one time he could forget about the responsibilities bearing down on him like an oncoming wave.

Sabrina did not share his love for such gatherings. She had inherited their parents’ propensity towards, ah…

“You’re not going to be a snob the entire time, are you?” Jaskier asked as they entered the main hall of the Cintra estate.

Calanthe might not be fond of him but tough luck to her. Pavetta _loved_ Jaskier’s tunes, always had, and he was sure that Calanthe had been terrified over the possibility that the two of them would be married, before Pavetta had gone and fallen for a man under a curse.

Jaskier had unfortunately not been there for that, seeing as it was while he was at Oxenfurt, but Pavetta had gushed to him all about the matter in a letter and he’d dutifully penned her a ballad about it.

The point was, Jaskier was always invited to both attend and perform at the balls hosted by Pavetta.

Everything was in full and proper swing by the time they arrived. Jaskier was always careful to arrive fashionably late so that he might make an entrance. And then, when the original musicians were in need of rest, he could ascend to the podium and give them respite while simultaneously showcasing his own, not inconsiderable talents.

He was determined to become a bard. Not just any bard, oh ho ho no, but a bard to a Witcher. He wanted heroism and heartbreak, he wanted excitement and adventure. Nothing against court bards, of course, and such bards who played love ballads all the day long, but he had a restlessness in him that craved for something more, something beyond the reaches of what proper society could always offer.

“Jaskier!” Pavetta found him almost at once, as she always did. She looked nothing like her mother, the sun to Calanthe’s moon, and if Jaskier did not have it on very good authority that she was indeed related her mother by blood, he should not have thought the two of them related. “Oh, I am so delighted you could make it, I was beginning to despair!”

“Princess, don’t I always make time for your parties?”

Beside him, Sabrina stood serenely, but he felt her elbow dig into his side.

What? He had called Pavetta a princess in his ballad about her and Duny (it made for a better story) and so now, it was his nickname for her. Jaskier had nicknames for just about everyone.

“Yes, but this is special.” Pavetta’s eyes sparkled. “We have a few special guests tonight—including some sorceresses from Aretuza. I convinced Mother to invite them. Let me see… oh, there is one of them, over by Mousesack!”

Mousesack, the druid, was in conversation with a most lovely woman. She had shining dark skin and soft corkscrew hair, with a wide, soft mouth and warm eyes.

Beside him, he felt Sabrina’s breath catch.

Oh ho ho. “You must introduce us, Princess. Especially Sabrina. Do you not know the lady from your classes?”

Sabrina had taken as many courses at Aretuza as she could before Mother and Father had recalled her home. She shook her head. “No. She must have been a few years before or after I attended.”

“Then you must be introduced,” Pavetta declared.

Jaskier looked over towards Mousesack again, and found his attention arrested. Standing behind the druid, doing his best to blend in with the darkness of the corner, was a man who looked as though he would rather stab himself than be there another moment. He glared at the assembled partiers. The scowl suited him, Jaskier decided, smothering a laugh. Most scowls ruined handsome faces, but his was none the worst for it. Of course, the sheer massive size of him and the snow-white hair admittedly contributed to Jaskier’s estimation. He forever had a weakness for men who seemed capable of picking him up, and a particular fondness for those who possessed unique or interesting features.

“Who’s the man brooding in the corner?” Jaskier asked. “The one with the quizzical brow?”

“ _That_ is Geralt of Rivia,” Pavetta said. “He came with Triss Merigold—the sorceresses with Mousesack. They say Geralt can best half of the other Witchers in Kaer Morhen.”

“What, the miserable half?”

“Shh!” Sabrina scolded him. “Jaskier, if you’re ever going to be a bard and attach yourself to a Witcher you’re going to have to learn to watch your tongue.”

“Ahh, but my tongue’s what gets me places.” Jaskier winked at her. “Watch.”

Sabrina made a grab for him, but Jaskier was already on the move. He would need no intermediary to secure an introduction. Nobody ever became a Witcher’s companion by waiting for Sir Someone-or-Other to introduce them!

Behind him he heard whispers and then the telltale sound of Pavetta and Sabrina following him. “Miss Merigold!” Pavetta called. “Geralt!”

Jaskier still reached them first. “Mousesack.” He bowed.

The druid bowed in return. “Mr. Pankratz. I see you are accompanied by your lute.”

“I’d be quite lost without it.” Jaskier grinned and nodded at Geralt. “As lost as this poor man here. I love how you just… sit in the corner and brood. Absolutely the thing to do at a ball.”

The man scowled at him, and that was when Pavetta swooped in. “Geralt. Miss Merigold. Please allow me to introduce Julian Alfred Pankratz, heir to the Lettenhove estate, and his sister, Miss Sabrina Pankratz.”

“Jaskier will do just fine,” Jaskier informed them.

Sabrina curtsied. Her eyes were fixed on Triss. “I hear you were a student of Aretuza.”

“I only recently graduated,” Triss replied. “I can hardly believe I’m allowed to call myself one of its sorceresses.”

“I was a student there, some years ago. May I request the pleasure of your company these first two dances? I should like to hear how the school is getting on.”

Triss seemed delighted and surprised by the invitation. “It would be an honor.”

“Jaskier is a most accomplished performer,” Pavetta said. “You still have no bard, Geralt, am I correct?”

“Hmm.”

No bard? Jaskier practically vibrated with excitement. If he could impress Geralt tonight, and then float the idea…

“Jaskier here will be playing for us later,” Pavetta said. “You ought to listen to his songs and see if you enjoy any of them. I think he has a bright future ahead of him.”

“Your mother would beg to differ,” Jaskier pointed out.

“My mother is not always right,” Pavetta said primly.

Geralt shoved past them and headed for the punch table.

“My apologies,” Mousesack said. “He’s always like that. Geralt has little patience for society, but it’s a virtue.”

“A virtue?” Jaskier was dubious on that front.

“He says what he means,” Mousesack replied. “There is no duplicity in him, no question of his loyalties.”

“That is refreshing,” Jaskier admitted. Privately, he thought that it didn’t matter the value of what one said if one said it in a way that put off the tempers of everyone around one’s person. A truth conveyed without compassion was as bad as a lie spoken prettily. “I heard he is among the best to come from the school of Kaer Morhen?”

“Ah, yes. He’s their best and brightest. Carved quite a reputation for himself by assisting with a striga—actually cured the poor girl, and none of us thought that was possible.”

Jaskier could feel excitement bubbling up in him like uncorked champagne. This was exactly the sort of person for whom he wanted to write songs. “How has no other bard attempted to partner with him? With such a reputation, such feats—”

“He’s not fond of bards,” Mousesack admitted. “Had a bad experience with one in the past. I’m afraid the details are lost to me and most others but suffice to say, you’ll have a hell of a time convincing him. Beg pardon for my language, Mrs. Rhiannon.”

“It’s no matter, I’ve heard my mother say much worse.” Pavetta smiled. “But if anyone could change Geralt’s mind about bards it would be you, Jaskier. Go on and strike up some tunes.” She lowered her voice. “Miss Merigold seems quite caught up with your sister.”

Jaskier followed her gaze and saw that Triss Merigold was indeed smiling and blushing at Sabrina, who was speaking with quite a good deal more animation than Jaskier normally saw from her at these gatherings.

Hope fluttered in his chest. Surely his parents could not object to Sabrina marrying a powerful sorceress, one with such good connections. It would be better for their pride if Triss Merigold had fortune as well as breeding, but surely Sabrina’s own inheritance of fifty thousand pounds was such that she could afford to marry someone with only a few hundred a year.

More than that, though, more than anything, the idea of seeing his sister happy… it was the greatest object of Jaskier’s thoughts aside from his career. Their parents had given them little cause to be happy all these years. To see Sabrina settled—!

“I shall strike up such a tune everyone will be bewitched into dancing,” he promised Pavetta, and hurried to the podium.

* * *

Triss Merigold and Geralt of Rivia were the most unlikely, and yet the most steadfast of friends.

He had met her when she had begged for his assistance in the striga matter, and they had found their countenances to be so proportionally opposite as to be pleasing to one another rather than off-putting. Geralt admired Triss’ ability to remain cheerful, her enduring hope in others, and her ability to remain compassionate in the face of so many reasons to close herself off.

Besides all of that, he knew a little of the training that went into becoming a graduated sorceress of Aretuza. If Triss could get through all of that and retain such softness and good humor, she was a singular woman indeed.

He was not entirely sure what Triss admired in him, other than his own dry way with words and his skill with a sword, but she had often told him (to his own chagrin) that he was a good man and she seemed determined to hold to that belief no matter how many times he warned her of her inevitable disappointment. Triss, he knew, would sacrifice much for him, for that was her way. And Geralt, for his part, would have done nearly anything to preserve her happiness. He knew far too well how the world liked to take advantage of such open and guileless natures.

That was why he had agreed to come to this blasted ball. Triss was moving into the neighborhood and had purchased a lovely if long-neglected estate, with an eye to fixing it up and putting down proper roots. She had begged Geralt to come and give his assessment of the property and the people, telling him she needed his forthright judgment.

Geralt also, privately, wanted to make sure nobody thought they could take advantage of Triss.

And now, only a half-hour into the whole stupid party and Pavetta was trying to foist a bard onto him. Geralt was keenly aware of what he and Pavetta owed one another (and his thorny relationship with Calanthe as a result) but he was not going to let her just hand him a bard like a birthday present.

He found Duny as quickly as he was able. “Tell me, how fond of this Jaskier is your wife?”

“If another man said that to me,” Duny noted, sipping his punch, “I would fear he suspected the bard of cuckolding me. But I know you don’t go in for gossip.”

“She’s been dropping broad hints about how I need a bard.”

“Ah.” Duny grinned at him. Geralt would never admit it because he liked to admit such things as little as possible, but he did like the knight. “You know how she is. Very much alike, she and her mother, once they have an idea in their heads…”

Up on the podium, Jaskier struck up another tune. He was talented, Geralt could give him that. His voice was rich and soaring, and he wasn’t prone to the stupid flourishes that many other bards found too tempting to resist. Showmanship without being too showy. But it wasn’t that Geralt was picky about a bard’s performing skills or musical talent. It was their integrity he doubted.

“I don’t suppose you can talk her out of it.”

Duny laughed. “I can try. You know, Ciri has been missing you…”

Geralt took the hint. “I’ll go and visit her. Same bedroom?”

“Yes, and if you could make sure she hasn’t planned some prank for her governess I’d appreciate it.”

With such an excuse on hand, Geralt slipped away to go up and see his Child Surprise. Ciri, thankfully, was only eleven years old and far too young for societal machinations.

Jaskier’s voice followed him up the stairs like a ghost.

* * *

Jaskier finished his round of performing (one of the keys was to know when to stop, better to leave them wanting more than to wear out your welcome) and immediately looked around to see if Geralt had been impressed.

Not that he expected the Witcher to be easily swayed. It would take more than just one performance to persuade a man who’d gone so long bardless. Most of the tunes weren’t even his best, they were merely common dances to keep everyone entertained.

Sabrina and Triss Merigold had danced together twice. Jaskier had never seen his sister so animated. To be sure, Sabrina’s ‘animated’ was most people’s ‘mildly interested’, but no matter. Jaskier was going to pry every bit of her conversation with Triss out of his sister later and he could hardly wait.

Ah! There was Geralt! He was emerging from the back staircase, how odd, where had he been?

Jaskier made his way through the crowd towards him, desperately trying to think of something to say other than _do you want some bread rolls_ (what, he was hungry), when Triss intercepted Geralt first.

“Oh, come, Geralt!” Triss Merigold was saying. “I must have you dance! I hate to see you standing about by yourself in this stupid manner.”

“No.”

“Please?”

“Fuck off, Triss. You know I hate it.”

Surprisingly, this course language and sharp tone did not seem to bother Triss in the least. “You dance perfectly happily with me, and with Mousesack.”

“I am acquainted with you both. I can’t dance with anyone unless I know them.”

“But Geralt! I’ve never met so many pleasant people in my life as I have tonight! And several of them are uncommonly pretty.”

“What, like Miss Pankratz?”

Jaskier preened on his sister’s behalf to see Triss glance Sabrina’s way and flush becomingly. “She’s the most beautiful creature I ever beheld.”

Jaskier nearly whooped, realized he would’ve given himself away, and swallowed the sound just in time.

“Her brother is a very pleasing fellow. He has the sort of face you just enjoy looking at. And he’s very agreeable. You needn’t chat with him, he’ll do all the talking for you.” Triss seized her friend’s hands. “Allow me to introduce you!”

Geralt snorted. “He’s tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me.”

Jaskier felt his stomach turn cold. He knew that he wasn’t what one would call classically good looking, not like Geralt. But still. He was an excellent dancer, a gifted conversationalist, and—and—just who did Geralt of Rivia think he was, anyhow?

“You had better return to your partner and enjoy her smiles,” Geralt concluded. “You are wasting your time with me.”

He turned and strode away, and Jaskier would’ve been glad if he’d never seen that man again in his life.

* * *

_Present Day_

Geralt stared up at Jaskier. Fuck, he looked tired. Geralt doubted that anyone else could tell, all buying into the show that Jaskier put on, but there was a restlessness to Jaskier’s fingers and a shadow under his eyes that had been missing the last time Geralt had seen him.

Of course, that hadn’t been under the best of circumstances.

He stared up at the bard. What should he say? Should he say anything? Should he just walk away?

“Geralt! Wasn’t sure if you’d make it!” Eskel clapped him on the back. “You’re just in time, we were about to start the second round of dances after Jaskier finished his delightful performance. And you two know each other?”

Jaskier flushed a little and glanced away. “A little. We were acquainted through Triss Merigold.”

“Ah, of course! Geralt, I’m surprised you didn’t snatch this one up as your bard.”

“Hmm.” Eskel would quickly learn that nobody ‘snatched’ Jaskier unless Jaskier let them.

Jaskier looked lost up on the podium. Before he could quell the instinct, Geralt reached up and offered his hand.

“Oh.” Jaskier took it and allowed Geralt to help him down. “Thank you.”

The bard slid his hand away, and Geralt had to resist the urge to flex his fingers, to test their weightlessness. His skin burned.

He’d hoped a year would be enough. He’d been wrong.

“I believe… condolences are in order,” he said, scrambling for a conversational topic before Eskel could unknowingly humiliate them both with more talk of pairing them together.

Jaskier looked down at the black armband wrapped around his bicep. “Ah. Well. It was inevitable with Mother, and then I suppose Father's heart was tired.”

Geralt recalled not only Jaskier’s parents, but the things he’d said about them to Jaskier’s face. He’d rather be facing ten drowners at once. With one hand tied behind his back. “I’m sorry.”

He expected a quip in response, but instead all he received was a tentative shrug and a subdued, “thank you.”

Clearly, his behavior had not been forgiven. Not that it deserved to be. They were saved from further discomfort by an excited, “Geralt! Geralt!”

He turned in time to catch Ciri as she flung herself at him, her arms going around his neck. “Hello little cub.”

Ciri was not the cuddling sort, but her parents had only just passed. It was hardly unexpected that she cling.

Geralt turned to make his apologies to Jaskier, but the bard was already gone.

* * *

Yennefer dodged Jaskier as he tried to grab her arm. “You didn’t _tell_ me you would be bringing him here!” the bard hissed.

“He is Cirilla’s guardian now. He’ll be training her. Of course I brought him.”

“Did Calanthe ask you to?” Jaskier demanded. “Or did you take it up yourself?”

“Jaskier, do remember that the world does not revolve around you and I did not do this merely to give you fits. Calanthe and Ciri need Geralt now, the terms of the Law of Surprise must be upheld, and I can portal him here faster than any ship could cross the Channel.”

“And so humiliating me was merely a side benefit,” Jaskier muttered as he downed an entire glass of wine in one gulp.

“The ’65 Bordeaux deserves better treatment than that,” Yennefer observed.

“Yennefer, with all due respect, which is none, leave me to my embarrassment. You know I said the most abominable things about that man.”

“I know many things.”

“Yes and you’re smug about all of them. I’m going to find something stronger to drink.” Jaskier slipped away. The poor man did look a little pale. Hmm.

Yennefer’s last report of anything regarding Jaskier and Geralt was that she had lost. Not that the competition between the two had ever been formally declared. And she would not ultimately have been satisfied with Geralt anyway. But why then should Jaskier be upset to see Geralt, if Geralt…?

“Yennefer, whatever you’re scheming, I beg of you to arrest it,” Tissaia said wearily. “Have some compassion for my nerves.”

“Your nerves would best steel,” Yennefer replied. “Besides, I am not scheming anything.”

Yet.

“I have spoken to Calanthe and as I suspected, she views your entrance as a slight to her and a wanton flaunting of your power,” Tissaia said. “I have made such amends and offered up such explanations as I can, but it would be best if you did so yourself.”

Yennefer rolled her eyes. “That woman sees enemies in everything. I did her a simple favor.”

“If your intentions towards Calanthe really are to help mend such a vital bridge,” Tissaia said, her voice softening, “then amends are necessary.”

Yennefer would have preferred to die than admit it out loud, but to be seen as doing well and right in Tissaia’s eyes had long been an object of desire. Even though she simultaneously knew it was never possible. Tissaia was determined to find fault in everything she did.

“Very well. I will apologize.”

It was not of Calanthe, however, that her thoughts dwelt on as she made her way through the ballroom.

They dwelt on Geralt and Jaskier, and the puzzle of their mutual dismay.


	4. Chapter 4

_Two Years Earlier_

“Mrs. de Vries!” Yennefer breezed past the footman. She had practically lived at Aretuza for most of her life, and even though Tissaia had insisted upon Yennefer taking a position as an official sorceress so that Yennefer might then accept an entail and have her own home to run, Yennefer spent far more time here with Tissaia than anywhere else.

“Head back, long neck,” Tissaia idly reminded her.

Yennefer instinctively stopped, adjusted her posture, and then proceeded into the sitting room. “I am no longer your student, you can stop lecturing me.”

“I wish for you to be your best self, Yenna, and until that day, I will continue to make my observations as I see fit.”

Yennefer would have objected more strongly to such an arrangement if she had not been keenly aware of how sorely she tried Tissaia’s authority and patience, how rarely she submitted, and how unconventional her time at Aretuza had been. Yennefer of Vengerberg was handsome, clever, and rich. The first had been created through magic and the third she had earned with her posting after graduation, and so it was only with Tissaia that she remembered to be grateful for the second, the only innate of her three virtues. Tissaia wanted her to be her best self because Tissaia alone, all those years ago, had seen how clever, how determined, how powerful Yennefer was.

All this to say that Yennefer would have died before admitting her gratitude.

She swept into the sitting room, where Tissaia sat with a cup of tea. Even when relaxing, the headmistresses of England’s most prestigious magical academy looked the picture of regality. It would never have done for her to look anything less. Yennefer had, from the beginning, done all she could to imitate Tissaia’s style.

Yet another thing she would never tell her. Before becoming rich or handsome, Yennefer had the pride to match both.

“Did you hear the news?” Yennefer helped herself to some tea from the tray and sat across from Tissaia. “Triss Merigold has finished up her post in the north and is considering settling here. I believe she intends to rent the Netherfield estate.”

“Yes, Triss kindly wrote to me inquiring my thoughts on the matter. She wishes to buy an estate but thought it best to rent first to see if it was truly a proper fit.” A slight pause. “She’s always been a prudent girl.”

“That she has been.” Triss had been a few years behind Yennefer at Aretuza and Yennefer had tutored her. Quiet and soft, Triss was everything that Yennefer was not, but Yennefer held no jealousy over it. She was a little protective of Triss. She felt it impossible not to be.

“You seem unusually excited about the matter.”

“Why shouldn’t I be glad to have an old school mate come into the area?”

“You care nothing for Miss Pankratz and she lives in the area.”

“There are glaciers in the north warmer than Sabrina Pankratz, and her parents are the greatest of snobs. And do not even get me started on her brother.”

Tissaia, who knew very well that when Yennefer said not to get her started she fully intended on delivering a prepared speech on the matter, headed it off at the pass. “You’re skirting the point.”

“Well.” Yennefer gave a shrug. “You know how much I have hoped to find someone suitable for dear Istredd.”

Tissaia said nothing, and only helped herself to another cup of tea. Istredd was another former student of Aretuza, a scholar and archeologist, and he had oft spoken of earning sponsorship from some noble or other to go on an expedition, to Egypt or the like. But he had also spoken, at least to Yennefer, of his hopes that he would not go alone, but rather with a partner, a spouse, someone to share in his passion and his life.

Yennefer was deeply flattered that he saw her so intimate a friend as to confide such a hope, and well, who better to know who was best for Istredd than she? And Triss Merigold, with her soft, thoughtful ways and overflowing heart, would be an excellent partner to Istredd’s studious and mild-mannered nature.

To be perfectly frank, and Yennefer often was, Istredd had not the backbone that she felt he ought to have, but Triss would have enough for both of them. And Triss would love a quiet life and devoted spouse, as Istredd was sure to be.

“And you think Miss Merigold to be that someone?” Tissaia said at last.

“Ms. de Vries, surely you cannot think otherwise. Where else will you find two tempers so alike as theirs? I shall bring him as my date to the ball that Mrs. Rhiannon is sure to host. Or rather her daughter is sure to host. A new sorceress to the neighborhood is excuse enough for merriment even if Cintra does not like magic. When Istredd and Triss meet, it will take only a few slight nudges—perhaps a few dinners—and my work will be done for me.”

Tissaia shook her head. “I think it will be an exercise in futility, Yenna, and an insult to both.”

“Surely you cannot think one unworthy of the other. I know that Istredd was Stregobor’s student and we are not fond of him, but the apple fell far from the tree in that regard.”

Tissaia de Vries was not so uncouth as to publicly rejoice at the death of someone she knew, however hated they might be, but when several years ago they had learned of Stregobor’s death at the hands of a girl (details were remarkably sketchy), she had privately said to Yennefer, in an uncharacteristic outburst of passion, _may Hell take him with pleasure._

“No, my objections are not related to family or history,” Tissaia replied. “Only in regards to temperament.”

Yennefer laughed. “Well, there we shall find I am a better judge than you. With how you terrified us in school, I should have known you would not see so well into human nature.”

“My stern manner made you who you are today,” Tissaia noted. “Do not mock it.”

“And it would have killed you to show us a little love, now and again?” Yennefer said these words without heat, although it did sting. She often wondered if she would ever earn Tissaia’s praise, her warmth.

“Mark me, Yenna.” Tissaia set down her teacup. “Meddling in the affairs of the heart is a harder game than magic, and a subtler one. I advise against it.”

Yennefer leaned across to her. “And I shall prove to you I am master of both.” She stood. “I must speak with Istredd and then write to Triss, get all in preparedness.”

She kissed Tissaia on the cheek, as she had often playfully done for many years—at first a trick done out of impertinence, and now a habit of true friendship—and swept out of the room again, completely unaware of the way Tissaia’s fingers rose to linger on her cheek, marking the spot out with the tips after Yennefer had gone.

* * *

Jaskier was remarkably patient in waiting two whole days after the ball to interrogate Sabrina about her thoughts regarding Triss Merigold. He did so on the way to town, where there would be no servants to listen in and report back to Mother and Father.

“Quite a coincidence,” he noted, neatly avoiding a puddle. “You setting off to buy new ribbon right after meeting our charming new local sorceress. Tell me, do you plan to call upon her? Or invite her to call upon you?”

“If you think I shall let her near Mother or Father, you are gravely mistaken. Mother might be ill but she still has her bite.”

Their mother’s fondness for wine went politely unremarked by both the family and the neighborhood, but it was taking its toll.

Jaskier grinned. “My dear baby sister, I’ve never seen you so passionately defensive of a lady before!”

“Do shut it, Julian, I know precisely what you’re getting at and you will not get any gossip out of me.”

“I should hardly call it gossip when one is confiding in one’s dearest sibling…”

“You’re my only sibling.”

“If you don’t tell me, I shall have to strike up a tune.” He always brought his lute along with him, just in case. He strummed some chords. “When a humble viscount’s daughter—”

“I will strangle you with your own lute strings, Julian, do not test me—”

Jaskier, focused entirely upon his sister, didn’t look at all where he was going and slipped in the mud. His only thought was for his poor darling lute, and protecting it, when he found a pair of strong hands catching him under his arms and hauling him gently back to his feet.

He looked up, and found himself caught by a tall, lithe man with bright green eyes and a mop of curly brown hair.

“Oh my goodness, thank you,” Sabrina said. “You must forgive my brother for not watching where he was going.”

“Actually I was just thinking of thanking him,” the man replied. He spoke to Selina but his eyes were on Jaskier. His voice was melodious and pleasing. “Otherwise I would have had to contrive some other way of making your acquaintance. I’m Valdo Marx, just a traveling bard, but rather new to the neighborhood.”

“The neighborhood is full of new people lately,” Sabrina said dryly.

“Jaskier,” Jaskier blurted out.

“He’s Julian Pankratz,” Sabrina said. Her tone was formal. “I’m Miss Pankratz, his sister.”

“Jaskier is my bard name,” Jaskier explained.

“How charming,” Marx replied. “It seems I interrupted you on your way into town, please allow me to escort a fellow artist.”

All thoughts of teasing Sabrina flew out of his head, partly because he couldn’t very well do so in front of another, but mostly because he was entirely caught up in conversation with their charming new companion. It felt as though Marx had been everywhere, all the places Jaskier had wanted to go, performing the way that Jaskier wanted to perform. They had even gone to the same university, Oxenfurt, where apparently the dean was quite fond of Marx. The man was fascinating.

The time into town felt halved, and Jaskier was just dreading having to come upon and interact with others who would steal his attention, when two riders approached them. The three walkers stepped aside appropriately and the riders slowed.

The first, Jaskier noticed, was none other than Triss Merigold. She looked lovely in a soft gray-blue cape, trimmed with white fur. Jaskier saw the faintest blush upon Sabrina’s cheeks as they nodded their greetings.

The second was Geralt of Rivia, on a dark brown horse with a white star on her forehead. He handled the animal with skill, Jaskier could grudgingly admit that—but then all thoughts were arrested when he saw Geralt and Marx stiffen at the same moment.

Marx gave Geralt a stiff bow. Geralt returned it with a reluctant nod. There could not possibly have been more palpable distrust between the two.

Silence awkwardly reigned as Triss, apparently oblivious, invited Sabrina to call upon them tomorrow, and Sabrina politely accepted. Jaskier found himself quite literally in the middle of a hearty stare-off between the two other men and wished the earth would be so kind as to swallow him up and spit him out again somewhere around Cape Horn.

At last, goodbyes were exchanged, and the riders departed. Jaskier looked over at Marx. The man seemed most interested in the study of the trees on the hill, but Jaskier knew what animosity he had seen.

It seemed he was not the only bard whom Geralt of Rivia had insulted in his time.

* * *

_Present Day_

Geralt took Ciri out to see Roach. He knew nothing of losing parents to a sudden death. He had never even known his father, for one thing. But he had been left by his mother on the side of the road, and that was close enough. He knew what would have comforted him in that time, and it would not have been a noisy party.

“I worried you wouldn’t come back,” Ciri admitted, after some time had passed brushing out Roach’s coat and braiding her mane. “You were gone for so long, Geralt. You left England.”

“Hmm.”

“There’s a war on,” Ciri continued stubbornly. “You oughtn’t have left.”

“Hmm.”

Ciri glared at him. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

“Nothing I could say would make you feel better.”

“Fuck you.”

Geralt didn’t respond. She was grieving. She’d say whatever she needed to in order to feel better.

After a few minutes, Ciri seemed to grow—not regretful of her words, but in need of reconciliation anyway. “You seem sadder.”

“Hmm.”

“I mean it. You’re always cranky but this is different. And _don’t_ say it’s because of my parents, Geralt, I know you cared for them but not like that.”

Geralt put Roach’s brushes away and brushed the hay off of Ciri’s dress. “I’m fine, little cub. I just needed a change of pace.”

“Is it Lady Yennefer?” Ciri asked. “I know you loved her once.”

“I thought I did, yes. But no. It’s not her.”

“So there _is_ something.” Ciri beamed at him triumphantly.

Geralt ignored her, although she had tricked him, the little minx. “Lady Yennefer is to be your tutor, if I can arrange it. I’ll thank you not to mention our former relationship to her.”

“Hmm.”

Geralt hid his smile in the darkness of the stables. “We should get back.”

“But there _is_ someone, Geralt. Or something.” Ciri’s face glowed like the moon.

Geralt put his hands on her shoulders. “Listen carefully, little cub. I’m fine. All I care about right now is you.”

Ciri didn’t seem altogether satisfied with such an answer, but she nodded anyway. “If you really care about me, then you shall dance with me, at least two dances.”

Geralt didn’t bother to smother this smile. “Very well, you have prevailed upon me.”

No, Ciri would not know. If she did, Geralt knew very well what she would do, his meddlesome hard-headed little Child of Surprise. She would try to fix things between her guardian and her favorite local bard, and Geralt would have none of that.

Jaskier, he knew, would not want it.

_You are the last person in the world that I could ever be prevailed upon to take up as my Witcher, never mind as my spouse._

No, Jaskier would not want that at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since Valdo Marx never actually makes an appearance in the video games or books and we have no physical description of him, I get to do what I want, and I want him to be played by Robert Sheehan.


	5. Chapter 5

_Two Years Ago_

Sabrina and Marx were both quiet as the three of them finished their walk into town. Jaskier understood the reasoning for the former, but not for the latter, and he burned with curiosity.

Of course, he could not hope to have that curiosity satisfied. He was a brand new acquaintance of the other bard, he could not expect to be taken into confidence so soon.

But then, when Sabrina went into the shop to look at some ribbon, opportunity smiled upon him.

“You must be wondering,” Marx said, his voice melodious even when quiet, “about the cold reception between the Witcher and myself just now.”

“I am, yes,” Jaskier replied. “But far be it from me to pry.”

Inwardly, though, his pride burned to know, if only to sooth the wound to his vanity that had been dealt by Gerlat’s words at the ball. He could have much more easily forgiven Geralt his pride if he had not wounded Jaskier’s.

“It is not a tale that I find easy to relay, and indeed I keep it close to my chest, out of respect for Geralt of Rivia’s esteemed trainer. The head of Kaer Morhen, do you know him? Vesemir is his name. A fine and noble man, I admire him too much to bring him pain by spreading ill news about his favored son.”

“I had no idea that Geralt was such.”

“That’s where his moniker comes from. He was selected for extra mutations, and it stole all color from his hair.”

Jaskier felt a sudden, swift stab of sympathy for Geralt. It was not a personal bit of sympathy, more a general bout of compassion. He did not like the idea of any person going through more of the already-painful trials the Witchers endured.

Marx sighed. “As you know, the relationship between bards and Witchers has become deeply ingrained in our society. It was the hope of our dear dean at Oxenfurt, and Vesemir, that there would be a partnership between a Witcher of Kaer Morhen and one of the graduates of Oxenfurt, to raise the acclaim of both parties. Naturally, Geralt was chosen as the Witcher, and your humble companion here was selected to be the bard. I was, as you can imagine, quite surprised by the honor and greatly looked forward to such a partnership.”

Jaskier could easily imagine such a thing. His parents had frustrated his every attempt to become a bard, only allowing Oxenfurt since such an education was expected of someone of their station in life. To be gifted the best Witcher of Kaer Morhen, to be chosen as their bard, it was an honor. Even if the Witcher in question did turn out to be Geralt.

“Unfortunately, Geralt did not share my views. He considers himself too good for a bard, that he can make his career on his own without assistance. I toiled for months to attempt to win him over, but it was to no avail. The man who should have been the making of me abandoned me to go and fight the striga—robbing me of the chance to write the tale of it—and by the time I discovered where he had disappeared to, there was no helping it. The deed was done and his reputation was founded without me.

“Such a slight could, of course, not be born.” Marx sighed again, sounding quite affected by the whole affair even now. “I had no choice but to remove myself. I gave my humblest apologies to Vesemir and the dean—I knew it would pain him to learn of the heartless pride he had raised in Geralt, and so I said nothing, only that my interests lay elsewhere. I shall not publicly besmirch Geralt’s name so long as Vesemir is alive. He sees Geralt as his best protégé. How could I steal such joy from him?”

“But would he not rather know the truth?” Jaskier asked. “Such a slight upon your honor—you cannot be the only person that Geralt has hurt in such a manner.”

Marx shook his head. “Geralt recalls to our minds the old tales of Witchers, that they are heartless and without mercy or feeling. But he is too powerful. He has made friends with the estates of Cintra and Aretuza. No one can dare to complain against him. And I certainly cannot afford to risk my reputation with such claims. Even if I did not feel a sort of respect and loyalty towards his mentor.”

“Then you are a far better man than he,” Jaskier said staunchly. “If I had been the one so slighted, I would not be half so generous.”

He was told he could be quite feral when the need arose. It was a fault of which he was aware, but awareness had not led to him curbing it.

Marx gave a bashful smile. “Well, I cannot give a testament to my morality. I can only follow my conscience and be as honorable as I may. I believe that if another man be dishonorable in our dealings, it is my duty to be even more so. I hope…” He laid his hand on Jaskier’s arm. “I hope that what I have told you will stay in confidence.”

“I shall share your secrets with no one,” Jaskier promised. “Does this mean that I cannot hope to see you at Lady Yennefer’s ball?”

“Ah, I have no shame to hide,” Marx assured him. “If Geralt dislikes my presence, he can be the one to leave. I certainly will not avoid him.”

Sabrina emerged, and had her judgments about things judging by the look on her face when she saw Marx’s hand on Jaskier’s arm, but she only said, “We had best head home, Julian. Mr. Marx, a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Sabrina’s tone brooked no argument, and so Marx quitted their acquaintance, saying he had business to attend to with the local regiment in any case.

Jaskier, of course, could not help but relay the entire conversation to Sabrina. His sister was the soul of discretion and confided her emotions to no one, save for Jaskier on occasion. He knew Marx’s tale would be safe with her.

“I cannot believe it,” Sabrina replied when the story was concluded. “Triss Merigold is everything a person ought to be: sensible, good-humored, and sociable.”

“And her being a beauty is no small matter.”

“Julian.” His sister’s tone was stern. “I cannot believe that such a woman as Miss Merigold would fall in with a man such as Mr. Marx described. Geralt of Rivia is the friend of honorable and powerful people.”

“I’m sure he can make nice when he wants to. He’s handsome and a Witcher, people will forgive him many faults if he rids them of a banshee in their backyard.”

“The matter of the striga is how he met Miss Merigold,” Sabrina said. “I will not believe such things about him when he has her esteem.”

“You are blinded so soon by love!” Jaskier retorted.

“And you by pride,” Sabrina replied serenely.

Jaskier glared at her, but his sister could not be perturbed—for she was rather enamored of Triss Merigold, and the first bloom of love smoothed over all else in her mind.

* * *

Yennefer was more excited for this ball than she had been for nearly anything all year.

Not only was this the chance to bring together her dear Istredd and the lovely Triss, but! Triss was bringing with her a Witcher!

Yennefer, in spite of her experience with magic, had yet to meet one, and while she doubted she would be _too_ terribly impressed, it was a novelty with which she could pass the evening.

Tissaia often said she despaired of her, but Yennefer found herself not even five and twenty and already bored with the world. She was powerful and could do whatever magic she pleased. She was beautiful and could charm whomever she wished. She had money, prestige, and… fuck all to do.

People didn’t want her because of her mind or who she was. They wanted her for her beauty and her position as a powerful sorceress. Yennefer could see it in their minds (the minds of men, mostly) when they spied her—the thought of how they could use her power for their own gains.

Once, she had attempted to save a mother and her newborn baby girl from an assassin. It had later come out that the assassin was sent by the woman’s husband—his estate was entailed, and if he did not have a son he would be obliged to settle the estate with a distant male cousin. With seven daughters already, the man had been at his wit’s end. Murder had presented itself as a reasonable solution.

In spite of all her magic, she had failed both the woman and her child. But the woman’s words had stuck with her—that she was her baby’s whole world.

Yennefer wanted to be someone’s whole world. Not for her power or beauty, but for who she was.

She feared, however, that person did not exist. That life did not exist. And while she had achieved the power for which she had always yearned… at times it was a cold comfort.

Until such time as she found the fulfillment she sought, the fulfillment she’d once thought would be granted upon her graduation from Aretuza—there was only trying to find new passing amusements to distract her.

A Witcher would be an excellent one.

Istredd arrived precisely on time, her first guest of the night. He always arrived early. His dedication was deeply appreciated and Yennefer tried to show that. Istredd had been her companion and support before her power, before her beauty, when she was nothing more than the upstart backwoods student who had been irritating everyone over her power struggle with Tissaia.

She would be forever grateful for his friendship.

Istredd, however, was not granted privacy for long. Soon others arrived—and excellently, among them was Triss Merigold!

“Triss!” Yennefer immediately swept through the assembled folk to take her friend’s hands.

Standing off to one side was Mousesack, the druid, an expected companion to Triss’ party. And with him was a _very_ handsome man. Well, not everyone might think so, but Yennefer had spent the first two decades of her life hating what she saw in the mirror. She knew how to appreciate an unusual or unexpected sort of beauty.

She could also appreciate a man who looked like he could pick her up and carry her around one-handed.

“Lady Yennefer.” Triss smiled. “Please may I introduce you to Geralt of Rivia.”

“Ahhh.” Yennefer’s curiosity was piqued even further. “The one who cured the striga, I have heard only good things.”

Geralt bowed slightly. The silent type, then? Well. Yennefer could work with that.

“And Triss, my darling, I must introduce you to my dear friend Istredd.” Yennefer brought the man himself forward. “Istredd, you are to be kind to Miss Merigold here, as a favor to me if nothing else, but I am sure you will find kindness to her a reward unto itself.”

“You praise me too highly,” Triss said with a smile, but Istredd bowed to her and asked after her field of magical studies, and Yennefer knew the first pieces of her plan were falling into place.

“Is Miss Pankratz going to be in attendance?” Mousesack asked politely.

“Ah, yes, along with her brother. I could hardly fail to invite them, seeing as she is a former classmate of mine.”

Triss glanced over at her friends, a dark blush staining her cheeks, and Yennefer had to bite back her grin. Already Istredd was making her color, this would be excellent.

Perhaps matchmaking would be her new hobby, if it was so easy and rewarding as this.

* * *

Geralt had no sooner made it clear to all of his friends that he wanted nothing to do with Jaskier than he began to realize that Jaskier was more… pleasing than he’d given the man credit for.

To be sure, he wasn’t the sort of stunning that Lady Yennefer possessed, the beauty that made everyone pause when one entered the room. But Jaskier had a face that was made rather intelligent by the constant life in his eyes. The quickness and fluid manner with which he moved was pleasing, and his form was taller, and broader, than Geralt had noted at their first meeting. Perhaps, above all, it was his playfulness that drew Geralt to him, a lightness that was so unlike Geralt’s own he couldn’t help but wish to soak in more of it.

…oh _fuck_.

But, look, he wasn’t at this party only to see Jaskier. He had absolutely no intention of acting upon any particular, ah, any particular anything towards the bard, if he had developed anything, which he _hadn’t_. He was here to get a better feel for Jaskier’s sister.

Triss had done nothing but speak of Sabrina Pankratz for days. The woman’s beauty, her poise, her knowledge of magic and literature, all were held up to the light and examined and found to be flawless, at least in the eyes of Triss Merigold.

Geralt himself was far from certain. He had observed in Miss Pankratz nothing but the general politeness that society expected of her, and in his short time in the area, Pavetta and Duny had been quick to fill him in on the infamous snobbery of the Pankratz family.

“Jaskier is a darling,” Pavetta had told him while he had swung Ciri on his arm, “but his parents are the worst sort of gentry. They despise Jaskier’s idea of being a bard and I think they will not be satisfied until both of their children are married off to dukes, even though I should think they would be satisfied with someone of ten thousand a year given the state of their financial affairs—but don’t tell anyone I told you that.”

“Hmm,” Geralt had said, and Ciri had shrieked with laughter and that had been the end of that.

He would not allow Triss, of all people, to be heartbroken over a family that thought she was not good enough for them. If Sabrina truly loved Triss, then—but that would remain to be seen.

In fact, Geralt had rather been hoping that Jaskier would not attend. A futile hope, to be sure, but one he’d entertained anyway. He did not need to be distracted by an annoyingly magnetic _bard_. Bards were nothing but trouble.

“Well,” Lady Yennefer said once Triss and the boring archeologist were off to dance, “it seems Witchers clean up better than I was led to expect. I had heard I should be able to tell the age and breed of your horse by the sort of smell that clings to you all.”

“I’ve been blackmailed into civility for the evening,” Geralt replied. Lady Yennefer’s tone suggested she wanted a proper verbal brawl, and frankly, Geralt was bored enough to indulge her. “You’ll have to catch me at another time if you want the authentic experience.”

“Oh, dear, I was afraid you’d say that. Now I’ll have to possibly see more of you.” Lady Yennefer’s eyes gleamed. “Which I expect I shall, since our friends seem to be such good acquaintances already.”

Geralt glanced over at Istredd and Triss, who were now dancing. The man seemed friendly enough, but Triss was already glancing about for Miss Pankratz.

“We have differing ideas of what makes a good acquaintance.”

“What is your idea, then?”

Geralt looked at her. She had very fetching violet eyes. “Honesty and vulnerability.”

Yennefer’s eyebrows shot up. “Well. I cannot argue against that. It has been some time since I’ve been met with sincerity.”

“Perhaps you’ve been spending time with the wrong people, then.”

Yennefer smiled, and it was a small, soft thing, unlike the others she had so far bestowed. Geralt liked it much better. “Perhaps I have been. Do you dance, Geralt?”

“Rarely.”

“I do not suppose I could prevail upon you.”

“You would have to enchant me for that.”

“I wouldn’t dare. But perhaps then I can induce you to escort me to the dining table, I’m parched.”

Geralt offered her his arm. “That I can do.”

He had dismissed Yennefer of Vengerberg upon first meeting her, but it seemed she had more to offer than he’d expected.

This night could actually be interesting.

* * *

Jaskier entered with Sabrina on his arm. Mother and Father had unfortunately insisted on coming as well, and he could already feel his teeth on edge at the prospect of them interacting with anyone of worth. Still, he hoped this could be a pleasant evening for Sabrina all the same.

He tried not to crane his head around too much looking for Marx. He’d hoped they could do a duet, something fun, and perhaps Marx could persuade Mother and Father to look kindlier upon the profession…

Sabrina tightened her grip on Jaskier’s arm, and he followed her gaze to find that she was staring at Triss Merigold, already out on the dance floor with a tall, bearded, dark-skinned gentleman.

Well, that was no surprise. It was to be expected that Miss Merigold was popular. “The dances will be over soon,” he whispered. “And you can request her for the next two.”

Mother was already on her way to the punch bowl. Jaskier wanted to bang his head against his lute.

“Go and seize your opportunity with Miss Merigold,” he hissed. “I am going to see if I can find Marx.”

“If you would do me the favor and _not_ win the ire of Geralt of Rivia, if only for my sake, for one evening, I should be grateful.”

“No promises!” Jaskier slipped away into the crowd.

He searched the entire area, and given that this was the estate of Lady Yennefer, there were many areas to search (rumor had it that the sorceress held orgies occasionally but of course there was no proof and such things were not said in polite society), but there was no sign of the other bard anywhere.

Jaskier returned at last to the main dance hall to find, oh for fuck’s sake, Miss Merigold with Father, Sabrina, and Geralt of Rivia, the absolute worst combination that could’ve been possible.

“Sabrina is, of course, the most eligible lady in the county,” Father was saying as Jaskier walked up. Father’s tone made it clear that someone such as Triss Merigold was not good enough to be counted as a worthy suitor. “When she was as young as fifteen there were gentlemen who—well there was one who I was sure would have made her an offer—he did write her some rather pretty sonnets—”

“And that put paid to it!” Jaskier said with a flourish, stepping in between. “Poor man wrote her a sonnet and that was the end of it.”

Geralt, who looked like he would rather be fighting a bruxa, turned to Jaskier. “I thought poetry was the food of love. Isn’t that what you bards make your careers on?”

“Of a fine, stout love it may be,” Jaskier replied, “but I am convinced that with a frail love one good sonnet will kill it stone dead.”

“And what,” Geralt asked, with an earnestness Jaskier had not expected of him, “do you suggest to encourage affection?”

Jaskier couldn’t help himself. Impertinence was his bread and butter. “Dancing.” He smiled. “Even if one’s partner is barely tolerable.”

Geralt’s face was truly beyond price.

“Speaking of dancing,” Sabrina said, seizing the moment, “Miss Merigold, would you do me the honor of standing up with me for the next two dances?”

“I would be delighted,” Triss replied. She took Sabrina’s hand with a smile.

Well, at least that matter was running smoothly.

“Father.” Jaskier took his father’s elbow and steered him away. “I think it’s time you checked on Mother, made sure she hasn’t enjoyed the punch too much, hmm?”

Whatever Geralt of Rivia’s thoughts were on the matter, Jaskier did not care. He had made it known that he’d heard the Witcher’s slight from the other ball, and that was all that mattered.

Well, that and finding Marx.

* * *

Geralt had no fucking clue what came over him, but Jaskier’s words burned in his mind: _dancing, even if one’s partner is barely tolerable._

Was the bard daring him? Or only making it known that he was aware of Geralt’s slight upon him the other night? Geralt had no idea the bard had overheard him and he wanted to smack himself. The last person he needed to piss off was a bard. He’d seen what troubles they could bring, how one song could ruin a person’s life.

There was the reckless part of him rising up now, the part of him that had said _fuck destiny_ and requested the Law of Surprise to Pavetta and Duny despite only just then having seen the damage requesting and refusing such a law could invoke. The part of him that had said yes to Renfri, that had taken her on despite all the warning signs, the part of him that had tried to cure the striga instead of killing it.

Jaskier thought dancing encouraged affection, then? Very well.

He’d ask Jaskier to dance, and the bard could shut his stupid attractive mouth after that.

* * *

Once Father was dispatched with, Jaskier found Tissaia de Vries. She, out of anyone, would know Lady Yennefer’s guest list.

Tissaia was eyeing the dance floor, where Istredd and Lady Yennefer danced next to Triss and Sabrina. Lady Yennefer seemed to be making conversation between Triss and Istredd, and judging by the look on Sabrina’s face, if Yennefer didn’t stop there was going to be some literal lightning striking the dance floor.

Sabrina and Yennefer, alas, had never quite gotten along.

“Lady de Vries.” Jaskier bowed.

“Jaskier. I am surprised you are not yet entertaining us with some pretty melodies.”

“Ah, I was detained by my doting parents. But I am far from the only bard in the area as of late, why did Lady Yennefer not hire Valdo Marx to perform?”

“She did attempt to engage him, although I advised her against it,” Tissaia said. “There is bad blood between him and Geralt of Rivia and given Yennefer’s insistence on Triss as an honored guest I wished to smooth the way. But it was no matter in the end, for Marx turned Yennefer’s offer down. He said that he found himself engaged elsewhere, but of course dropped the hint that he might not be so obliged to be engaged, were a certain other person not in attendance tonight.”

Curse that blasted Witcher. “A pity, I had looked forward to playing a duet.”

“Think of it in a better light,” Tissaia advised. “Now you do not have to share the attention of the crowd, and you need all of the exposure you can get.”

“Starting my career later, yes, Lady de Vries, I am aware.”

He could not mask his bitterness, and Tissaia wisely changed the subject, turning once again towards the dancers. “You are not blind, Mr. Pankratz. Tell me you can prevail upon your sister to secure Miss Merigold’s hand before my darling protégé breaks three hearts in one stroke.”

“What?” Jaskier looked again at the dancers.

Lady Yennefer seemed to be directing Istredd to speak with Triss, both of them polite and smiling, but continually, Triss tried to turn to Sabrina, and Istredd to Yennefer.

“Her boredom is going to end in murder someday,” Jaskier muttered.

“I should like to see Yennefer in love, and in some doubt of a return,” Tissaia noted. “It would do her good.”

“We’ll see our dear Witcher praising my music before that happens,” Jaskier replied with a laugh. “But I do believe that your fears are unfounded—whatever interference Yennefer might attempt, she doesn’t have the power to change a person’s heart. Not even through magic.”

Love magic had been attempted many times over the centuries, and it had never once ended in anything except for horrible disaster.

“Miss Merigold likes your sister undoubtedly,” Tissaia warned. “But she shall never do more than like her if Sabrina does not help her on.”

“Sabrina cannot be dishonest,” Jaskier protested. “I know that many dislike her and see her as cold but it means her affection carries all the more weight.”

“We do not always have time to be cautious in love,” Tissaia replied. “If she does not make her desires known, Triss will lose faith and could be persuaded to turn towards another.”

“If she does, then she does not deserve Sabrina.” Jaskier was staunch in his belief of his sister’s virtues.

“Jaskier.”

He turned, and found that none other than Geralt of Rivia stood before them. The man looked like he was about to be stoned by villagers. “May I request your hand for the next dance?”

“Yes,” Jaskier blurted out on instinct before he could even think to stop himself.

Geralt gave a halting nod, first to him, then to Tissaia, and walked away.

Tissaia did an excellent job of sipping her wine very pointedly.

“…did Geralt just ask me to dance with him?”

“Yes.”

“He never dances. Unless it’s with a close acquaintance, I have heard him say so himself.”

“And yet.”

“And did I say yes?”

Tissaia pretended to think about it. “I do believe you did.”

“Fuck.”

“Not on the dance floor, if you please.”

Smirking, Tissaia made her way towards some other guests, undoubtedly to assist in playing hostess since the actual hostess was still out on the dance floor. And now there was nothing for Jaskier to do except for stand very, very still and try very, very hard not to panic.

He was only marginally successful.


	6. Chapter 6

_Present Day_

Geralt enjoyed dancing with Ciri. Normally he wouldn’t enjoy dancing with someone so much smaller than he, but Ciri was a bouncy child and he was happy to do whatever he could to bring a smile to her face if only for a few moments.

“You’ve been practicing,” he noted as they neatly executed a turn between the couple next to them.

“Grandmother wants me to be prepared for next year so she can present me in London,” Ciri groused. “I think it’s nonsense. Especially since now I can apprentice under you.”

Geralt shot a look across the ballroom to where Calanthe spoke with Miss de Vries and Eist. He and Calanthe had yet to speak of Ciri’s future. Geralt was certain it would be a discussion that was, at best, unpleasant.

“Not only under me, little cub. Lady Yennefer will be teaching you about your magic.”

“Well, at least she’s fun. I can’t imagine being taught by Mrs. Pankratz, can you? She wouldn’t be fun in the slightest. Are you sure Triss can’t tutor me?”

Triss would let Ciri get away with everything because Triss was, bless her sweet heart, far too indulgent when it came to children.

“I’m quite sure.”

The dance finished and they bowed to one another. As Geralt straightened up, he caught sight of Jaskier talking animatedly with someone—a very tall, beautiful, dark-skinned woman—across the ballroom.

Geralt had never seen her before. She cut an imposing figure and her manner of dress was a bit severe, not what he would’ve thought of as Jaskier’s type, and yet he couldn’t stop the hot curl of sick jealousy in his stomach as Jaskier made her laugh.

“Tell me, little cub, who’s that?”

Ciri followed his line of sight. “Oh, I’m sure I don’t know her. She might be new to the area. Perhaps she’s the infamous Countess de Stael.”

“The whom.”

“Countess de Stael. Nobody will tell me the details because I never get to have any fun but I heard—just before they left for sea—Mother told Father something about the countess and breaking off with Jaskier. It put him in quite a… funk was the word Mother used, but I’m not allowed to use it, because it’s slang.”

Jaskier… had courted someone? Sincerely enough to be hurt by it, enough for Pavetta to have spoken of it?

Something of his thoughts must have shown on his face, because Ciri wrapped herself around his arm. “Oh, Geralt, don’t be so down, we can’t _both_ be down. I’ll get us some wine.”

It took him two seconds to realize what she’d said, but that was enough time for Ciri to skitter away into the crowd. “Cirilla, you’re not having—you’re too young for wine— Cirilla get _back here—_ ”

* * *

Jaskier did not at all know what to make of Lady Fringilla.

It was a point of honor that most sorceresses were addressed by the title of lady, since in devoting themselves to the magical arts they gave up all ties to their origins, including surnames. They were to serve all people, and England, without discrimination or favoritism.

Lady Fringilla had apparently studied abroad after failing to secure a place studying in Aretuza. “It happens,” she said calmly. “But I have long hoped to meet with the famous Tissaia de Vries. I was fortunate to procure an invitation here. I heard the hostess is not overly fond of magical practitioners.”

“As a rule. Aretuza was overshadowed some years ago by the ill-advised actions of one of their sorcerers and since Calanthe had a magical daughter of her own, it quite put her on edge.” Jaskier smiled politely. “But such things are in the past. Miss Cirilla needs a mentor and Calanthe is opinionated but not unwise. As far as Miss de Vries, I can certainly introduce you two, for she has been gracious enough to become an acquaintance of mine some three or four years ago by virtue of my sister.”

Fringilla accepted his offer, and Jaskier took her to Tissaia, making such necessary and polite introductions as were within his means. As he had suspected, Tissaia’s instinctive desire to teach and nurture all magical practitioners had her gifting Lady Fringilla with a seldom-seen warm graciousness, and Jaskier was soon able to leave the women to it.

He was keenly aware, the entire time, of the lack of Geralt’s presence. He could not help himself. Everywhere he was placed, Geralt had taken care to then find himself on the opposite end of the room.

Jaskier could expect nothing less, or so he told himself repeatedly, but he could not help the sting of it.

“Bard!” Yennefer hissed, her nails sinking into his arm as she slipped up beside him. “Who is that with Miss de Vries?”

“Her name is Lady Fringilla. She is a sorceress, and I believe wishes to spend a bit of time in Aretuza.”

Yennefer eyed the woman up and down. “She is quite attentive to Miss de Vries, is she not?”

“Miss de Vries is the most accomplished teacher of magic in the country, Yennefer, I dare say that Lady Fringilla is as attentive as she ought to be.” Jaskier took in the high color on Yennefer’s cheeks and the way her eyes gleamed. “Why Yennefer! What an interesting skin regimen you have begun.”

“What?” Yennefer asked, caught off-guard.

“Truly, you must tell me what ingredients you are putting in your lotion. You look positively… green.” Jaskier grinned.

Oh, it was so worth it, even though Yennefer immediately hexed his doublet so that it was now an annoyingly loud shade of pink instead of the previous pale gold.

* * *

Lady Fringilla.

Yennefer of course would be obliged to say hello to her, no matter how vexing of a situation it might be. She had never met the woman before, but the name had been burned into her memory.

There were a limited number of spots open for those seeking instruction at Aretuza, and Tissaia had, in an unprecedented move, insisted upon Yennefer taking the final spot. In the process, the spot had been denied to Fringilla, a girl from a family of esteemed power and good breeding.

A few other instructors, if Yennefer recalled correctly, had put up quite a fuss about it.

Ever since that day, whenever Yennefer had been failing in her studies—which for the first few years had been quite often—Tissaia would remind her of the girl she had replaced. It had filled Yennefer with a burning fire, a desire to prove to her mentor that she had not made a mistake in selecting Yennefer instead of Fringilla.

Now, the very object of her girlhood envy and jealousy, and someone who would have every very good reason to dislike her, was in attendance and playing compliments to Tissaia.

It was not to be born!

Yennefer adjusted her dress, waved her hand in a quick spell to ensure that each strand of her hair was in place, and made full preparations to march over and—

“Yen.” Geralt hooked her arm with his and spoke in a low tone. “Who’s the woman with de Vries?”

“Fringilla,” Yennefer hissed back. Why should Geralt care? “I displaced her at Aretuza. A woman of vastly superior family and economic background and not a drop of elf blood in her, cursed thing.”

“She is not, then, the Countess de Stael?”

“The—whom? What? No, the Countess is a woman with quite pale hair and honeyed eyes, lovely contralto. She’s in London this time of year, as she always is, why on earth would you think she was here?”

“No reason.” Geralt let go of her and promptly walked away.

Yennefer stared after her one-time paramour.

What on earth had that been about?

* * *

_Two Years Ago_

Geralt had asked him to dance. And he had, out of a moment of pure instinct and probably also a dash of madness, said yes.

Jaskier considered the social ramifications of plunging his head into the punch bowl, decided that it wasn’t going to be worth it and that his parents disliked him quite enough already, and prepared for a half-hour of frigid stares and having his feet stepped on.

Although it had long since been acknowledged that Witchers were not the mindless, heartless brutes that people had initially claimed them to be, they were still not a group known for their skill in the finer aspects of society. Witchers were valued, and one of the greatest sources of entertaining stories, but it would be ridiculous to expect one to play bridge or dance with ease.

Jaskier busied himself in the interim watching Sabrina and Triss—and by extension Yennefer and Istredd—like a hawk. That minx was up to something, he was quite sure of it. Trying to push Istredd and Triss together when Triss clearly preferred Sabrina, oh ho ho, Jaskier was going to get her for this.

Yennefer could be entertaining to trade barbs with but in the few months since she had first settled in the area she had done little to endear herself to him. Partially because of her lack of affection for Sabrina, who of course did not mind the insult but rather repaid it in kind, a sort of cold war existing between the two as there had apparently been in school. And now, the woman was trying to win Triss’ affection for someone else when Sabrina had quite obviously made a prior claim and—

“Jaskier?”

“Mothercock—” Jaskier jumped about a mile into the air and then whipped around.

Geralt raised an eyebrow, apparently unimpressed.

“Ah, right, Geralt, yes, of course.” Jaskier allowed his arm to be taken so that he might be led out onto the floor.

To his astonishment, when the music struck up, Geralt was not a beat out of place. “I had not thought Witchers known for their dancing.”

“Miss Merigold found it imperative to teach me. She had few dancing partners in the north and decided I would do as well as any.”

“She taught you well, and this is a pleasant dance, we often employ this one when there are large numbers.”

Silence fell for a total of five whole minutes. Jaskier had never been so silent with a partner before. It seemed to bother Geralt not at all, but Jaskier strained against it like a wild horse with a bit.

“It’s your turn to say something now, Geralt. I talked about the dance, and you ought to make some kind of remark on the size of the room, or the number of couples.”

The corner of Geralt’s mouth seemed to curl both upwards and inwards, like a smile so hidden that only Jaskier could see it. “Whatever you wish to say, I can say it.”

“Very well. That reply will do for now. Perhaps in a moment I may observe that private balls are much more pleasant than public ones. But now we may be silent.”

“Do you talk by rule then, while you are dancing?”

“Sometimes. One must speak a little, you know. It would look odd to be entirely silent for half an hour together, and yet for _your_ advantage, conversation ought to be arranged so that we can have the trouble of saying as little as possible.”

“Do you think you’re gratifying my feelings?”

“Oh, no, I’m gratifying both of us,” Jaskier replied. “I’ve seen a great similarity between us. We’re both unsocial, taciturn people, unwilling to speak unless we expect to say something that will amaze the whole room.”

Geralt snorted and turned his head away, but Jaskier caught the broader smile the Witcher was working tremendously to conceal. When he turned back, his face was once again in order. “Do you often walk into town with your sister?”

“Yes, often. Indeed…” Jaskier could not resist the dig. “Town affords the opportunity to make many charming new acquaintances. You saw us with one, I believe, just the other day.”

The effect was immediate. Geralt’s face turned to stone. “Mr. Marx is blessed with such happy manners as may ensure his making friends—whether he may be equally capable of retaining them is less certain.”

“He has been so unlucky as to lose your friendship,” Jaskier replied. “And in a manner which he is likely to suffer from all his life.”

“And here I have clearly been remiss. I was unaware that you were given the office to judge the rest of us on our character. I thought you bards were only appointed to entertain and make light of us, not to also serve as barristers.”

“I hope I never ridicule what is wise and good,” Jaskier said. “Follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies are diverting, you must admit, and I laugh at them whenever I can. But these, I suppose, are precisely what you are without.”

“I don’t think that it’s possible for anyone to be without any.”

“What then, is yours?” Jaskier baited him. He had never been one to know when to stop once he started. To his detriment, as Sabrina sometimes warned him.

Geralt gave him a look of sincere solemnity, and Jaskier found his breath catching although he could not have said why. “My folly is a grave one: my good opinion once lost is lost forever.”

“Oh dear.” Jaskier dared to pout at him. “I really cannot laugh at that. That is a shame, for I dearly love a laugh.”

“I had noticed.” Geralt sounded perplexed and yet—no, not fond, the man could not sound _fond_ of Jaskier, when he obviously disliked him so.

“You are very cautious, I suppose, in regards to that resentment being created?”

“I am,” Geralt replied, his voice firm once again.

“And you never allow yourself to be blinded by prejudice?”

“I hope not. May I ask why these particular questions?”

“I’m merely trying to make out your character.”

“And what is your success?” Geralt seemed genuinely curious, perhaps even… no, not _worried_ , surely. What would Geralt of Rivia have to worry about with someone like Jaskier?

“I can’t get on at all,” Jaskier admitted. “I hear such different accounts of you that I’m exceedingly puzzled.”

“You wouldn’t be the first,” Geralt replied.

“I begin to suspect you delight in being an enigma.”

There was that hidden smile again. “Perhaps I do. But then you’re no less of a puzzle yourself, bard. Or should I say viscount?”

Jaskier glared at him. “And now you are teasing me.”

“Never.”

They were standing a mere few inches apart and Jaskier realized the odd ringing in his ears was because the music had stopped. The dance had ended.

He had forgotten there was anyone else in the room.

They were standing far too close for propriety. Jaskier took a step back, his throat dry and his face hot. “Thank you for the dance. I should take my place with the musicians now.”

Mother and Father would hate it deeply. It delighted Jaskier to no end. At least, usually it did.

For now, it was merely a method of escape.

Geralt’s gaze burned into his back as he told himself he wasn’t fleeing.


	7. Chapter 7

_One Year and Eleven Months Ago_

It was some time before Jaskier was forced to see Geralt of Rivia again. In that time he made himself busy dealing with Mother, whose health had taken a sudden turn for the worst, and spending many an afternoon with Marx, who made himself a most obliging companion.

Since Lady Yennefer’s ball, however, Sabrina had been able to call upon Triss Merigold with regularity. Father would have been most disapproving if Miss Merigold had called upon them, and with Mother’s condition Sabrina did not think it wise for any visitors to come to the house at all, and so it was always Sabrina going to Triss, and not the other way around.

Jaskier felt the imbalance acutely, and was sure that his sister did as well, but Sabrina had always been accomplished at hiding her emotions. He could not judge her, either, for he was forever sneaking off to practice his music with Marx, away from Father’s cold, cutting remarks and Mother’s fits.

However, at last Father seemed to decide to put his foot down on this Merigold issue. Perhaps he sense his daughter’s fondness for the lady, or perhaps he simply did not want his family name associated with a lower-born woman any longer. In either case, he forbade Sabrina to use the carriage to call upon Miss Merigold that day.

“It looks like rain,” Jaskier argued. “Surely you cannot need the horses for any particular reason.”

“Indeed I do need them, Julian, and I resent your implications.” Father did not even look up from his paper as he spoke. “I am still the runner of this household, and I need the horses today.”

“God forbid you need them when it would actually be useful,” Jaskier snapped.

“It is no never mind to me,” Sabrina said, her voice firm but colorless. “I shall walk.”

“It’s supposed to rain!”

“A little rain will not kill me,” Sabrina replied.

Famous last words.

That afternoon, Jaskier received a letter from Sabrina stating that she would be obliged to stay at Miss Merigold’s.

… _for I arrived quite drenched, and am now struggling against a cold. Miss Merigold will not hear of me leaving, even though aside from a headache, a touch of fever and a sore throat, there is not much the matter with me._

Oh, for heaven’s sake, the ridiculous woman.

“I’m going to see Sabrina,” Jaskier announced. The maids could take care of Mother well enough without him. He was going to check on his sister.

“She ought not to have gone,” Father said darkly as Jaskier put on his boots.

“You ought to have let her take the carriage.”

“I will not let her propose. Mark me, Julian. Sabrina will not be allowed to marry that woman.”

Jaskier stood, his fingers trembling and aching to curl into fists. “I thought it hardly mattered, since she is not the one you wish to run the estate anyway. Shouldn’t my union matter more?”

Father glared at him and Jaskier took his leave before he said something that couldn’t be taken back. If not for his own sake, for Sabrina’s. Jaskier would not much care if he was disowned—indeed he’d been pushing for it—but Sabrina had never held a post as a sorceress. To be cut off suddenly, without prospects—no. Jaskier had to protect his sister, and Father knew that, the bastard. He’d cut Sabrina off to spite Jaskier and force Jaskier to keep the family name and title.

It was with such dark thoughts that Jaskier walked the three or so miles to Miss Merigold’s estate, where he found Mousesack and Geralt sitting at the table, pouring over documents of some kind.

They stared at him as he was announced.

“Good heavens,” Mousesack blurted out. “Mr. Pankratz. You look positively medieval.”

Jaskier looked down at his trousers, which were completely covered in mud. He looked back up and gave a cheerful grin. “Well, I should hope I didn’t bring the plague in with me.”

“You look the picture of health,” Mousesack said. “Eh, Geralt?”

Geralt made a strangled sort of _hmm_ at the back of his throat. Odd. Well, Jaskier was not going to allow his apparent offensiveness to Geralt to dampen the spirits his walk had raised in him.

“If you’ll excuse me, I need to go and see my sister.”

“Miss Merigold is with her,” Mouseack said, sounding still amused. “A footman will show you where you can change, if you wish to borrow some clean clothes, I believe you and Geralt are of a height.”

Geralt shot his friend such a glare that Jaskier quickly blurted out, “Truly, there is no need—”

“Nonsense. You deserve to be comfortable since you will be a guest. Geralt will not mind.”

Geralt looked like he wanted a dragon to set him on fire.

“Ah. Well. Thank you, then. If you insist.”

“I do,” Mousesack said firmly. “The footman will show you the way.”

Well. That had been a most puzzling interaction.

* * *

Geralt whipped around to Mousesack the moment Jaskier was gone. “I will gut you.”

Mousesack placidly went back to perusing the letters that told of a kikimora issue nearby. “You’re welcome.”

“ _I do not want him in my clothes_.”

“Oh, you don’t wish for him to smell like you? And wear your mark? Pardon, I must have mistaken the way you looked at him like you were a starving wolf and he was a plump lamb.”

“Mousesack. He hates me.”

“I thought the exercise had made his eyes quite bright,” Mousesack mused. “Brought such a lovely color to his cheeks.”

Geralt growled.

“Fuss all you like,” Mousesack said, turning a page. “You’ll be thanking me soon enough.”

Geralt doubted that. Jaskier _had_ looked—well. The state of him was rumbled and dirty, his clothes ready to be ripped off, his hair windswept and his cheeks and neck flushed, his eyes sparkling. The bolt of heat that had shot through Geralt, the desire to strip those dirty clothes off Jaskier and get him even more filthy, had pinned him to his chair like a bolt of lightning.

Now he would have to suffer through Jaskier wearing his clothes. His scent would be all over the man, his colors, his—damn Mousesack, the druid knew how possessive Witchers were.

It was going to be a long few days.

* * *

Mousesack had obviously been mistaken about Geralt’s clothes fitting Jaskier.

Yes, they were the same height, and Jaskier was broader in the shoulder and thicker in his arms than most people expected, but he was nothing compared to the actual solid _mountain_ that was Geralt of Rivia.

The width of his trousers, for one thing—how wide did the man’s hips have to be to—?

No, no, he was _not_ going to think about Geralt’s hips. Or chest. Or the—rest of him.

Lord, was he big—everywhere? The inseam—

Jaskier had to take a moment. He was no longer the foolish man he’d been at eighteen, falling arse over teakettle for any handsome person who gave him the time of day and getting his heart stomped over every time. Geralt was handsome. He was the sort of man who would undoubtedly ruin Jaskier if he took Jaskier to bed.

But that did not change his demeanor, nor his behavior, and Jaskier would have to be mindful of that. He was not looking for a tumble he’d regret in the morning, if Geralt were even inclined that way, and he was certain that Geralt was not.

Jaskier found the simplest clothes he could, clothes that Geralt clearly rarely wore, and slid them on. They were dark blue, apparently made for some sort of banquet, and Jaskier could not imagine the Witcher wearing them. Perhaps they never had been worn. But they had the wolf symbol of Kaer Morhen neatly stitched into the points of the collar and along the cuffs, and the buttons had the stamp of the wolf on them. Obviously custom made.

They also smelled like Geralt.

Jaskier could not quite hide a shudder. The clothes, and Geralt, smelled like leather and oil and wild forest. Jaskier had caught whiffs of it when they’d danced last month, but now it was in full force and he found himself affected by it, warmth curling in his gut.

No. Absolutely not. He could control his ridiculous libido and be ruled by his head for once instead of his cock. Besides, his own needs did not matter. He was here for Sabrina, and it was on Sabrina he would focus.

So there.

* * *

Oh, damn that Sabrina Pankratz!

“Moping does not become you, Yenna,” Tissaia noted as she walked past Yennefer, who had stretched herself out upon the settee and was currently in the deepest throes of frustration.

Yennefer peeked out at Tissaia from underneath the arm she had thrown across her face. “I am not moping. I am in a fit.”

“Ah, my mistake.” The corner of Tissaia’s mouth lifted slightly, betraying her amusement.

Yennefer sat upright. “I convinced Triss Merigold that she ought to invite Istredd to tea—you know how men are, they will never make a move unless prodded—and she goes and invites Sabrina Pankratz as well, I am sure the stubborn woman made her feel an obligation—and now Miss Pankratz has gotten ill and is obliged to stay with them! Triss will not hear of her being returned home!”

“Miss Merigold is an admirable hostess,” Tissaia replied diplomatically.

“But how can she have time to attend upon Istredd’s courting when she is busy playing nursemaid!”

“Look here, Yenna,” Tissaia said, her tone sharp, “I wish you would dispense with insisting that Istredd and Miss Merigold must be together. You are setting multiple people up for heartbreak. You can play with magic all you like but I must draw the line at you playing with people’s hearts.”

“I am not playing at anything! I wish for my friends to be happy.”

Tissaia sighed. “You will do as you will, I suppose. At the very least will you spare some time with the first years? You calm them admirably.”

Yennefer did have a touch with the new students at Aretuza. She well remembered her own despair and anger and fear when she had first come here all those years ago. “Certainly, I shall go now.” She stood. “Honestly, Miss de Vries, all they need is a loving hand. If you would employ someone who could give them a mother’s touch as well as an instructor’s, I’m sure they would blossom much faster.”

“If only such a person could be found,” Tissaia said with a touch more irony in her tone than usual as Yennefer swept from the room.

* * *

_Present Day_

Geralt successfully managed to avoid Jaskier for the rest of Calanthe’s ball, and spent the next day quite absorbed in a riveting discussion with her about Ciri’s future.

By which he meant, they viciously argued while Eist tried to keep them from killing each other.

Calanthe’s argument was that Geralt would not be taking her darling granddaughter, the spitting image of Pavetta and the light of her life, from her. Geralt’s argument was that Ciri would be best served studying at Kaer Morhen, with Lady Yennefer for extra instruction. The suggestion of a sorceress of any kind tutoring her granddaughter was almost more insulting to Calanthe than the idea of taking Ciri away for months at a time.

And so they went back and forth until both swore colorfully and strode out of the room in a huff, leaving Eist to order tea.

Geralt sent himself on a short ride on Roach, to ease his nerves and sooth his mind. He had only been out for half an hour when he spied another rider, one easily recognized by her flowing blue coat and her dark curls.

He slowed Roach to a walk and Triss pulled up beside him. “Geralt! A fine day, is it not?”

“Indeed. How is your wife?”

“Oh, marvelous.” Triss’ cheeks colored. “She works herself too hard over the estate, but I find means to give her proper care.”

“Hmm.”

“What brings you out on a ride?” Triss’ face grew soft. “It is not from last night, is it? I had no idea what sort of song Jaskier had been working on, otherwise I should never have let him play it. But it was his first in a year, and I did not want to crush his inspiration again…”

“What?”

“The song. _Her Sweet Kiss_. I know that—your matters with Lady Yennefer were tumultuous but—it was not kind of Jaskier to put them in song.”

“Hmm.” Geralt tried to gather his thoughts. “I was not… the song could have been from many perspectives. It did not hurt me.”

“Oh.” Triss sounded doubtful.

“Yennefer and I are in the past. I wish you all would believe me.”

“How can we when you are clearly still so hurt?”

“I’m not hurt over Yennefer.”

Triss narrowed her eyes. “Over someone else, then? Whom?”

Geralt sighed. “You said that Jaskier had not written in over a year. Did his parents’ deaths grieve him so much?”

“Oh, no. One must not speak ill of the dead, but…” Triss bit her lip. “I am aware that it is their passing that allowed my darling Sabrina to propose to me, and for Jaskier to freely become a bard and pass the management of the estate onto his sister.”

“Was it—the Countess de Stael?” Geralt struggled to keep a casual tone even as his heart twisted viciously.

Triss rolled her eyes. “Oh, do not tell me some gossipmonger has told you about that. They were nothing more than a flash in the pan. Jaskier made a big fuss over her but darling Sabrina and I saw through it. He might have fooled everyone else but he could not fool his family. No, I think… I think there was someone else, and Jaskier threw himself at her to try and—either distract himself or distract the rest of us. I do not know. Perhaps a touch of both. But some cloud has hung over him the last year. I know not what, he will not speak of it.”

Geralt suspected he knew. Jaskier could be discreet when he wished, but his passionate defense of a certain fellow bard (and Geralt’s own knowledge of that bard’s charismatic charm) had spoken volumes. He was oddly proud of Jaskier for creating a diversion so that none would suspect.

Geralt himself, although pained to know Jaskier had suffered heartbreak, could not help but be glad he had nipped such affections in the bud. Associating with Valdo Marx in any respect could only lead one to ruin, and Geralt was sure that whatever pain Jaskier had felt, it would be better than what he would’ve gone through if he’d continued his relationship with that particular troubadour.

“You appear relieved,” Triss noted. While Yennefer always drew things out of Geralt he did not intend to share, Triss had the gift of seeing right through Geralt to the things he wished to conceal. “I thought you and Jaskier to be at odds.”

“Yes. We were. But I know his struggles. I did not wish him public heartbreak on top of it all.”

“Geralt of Rivia, do not let anyone say that you are unkind.” Triss turned her face to the wind. “Come, I shall race you to the fence—and we’ll see who has the wind up!”

Goodhearted Triss Merigold. She always knew when to end a conversation.

* * *

Jaskier knew that Triss had gone out on a ride for the day, and Sabrina was occupied with agriculture, so he prepared himself for a day indoors avoiding his writing.

He ought to be writing. He wanted to be writing. In fact, ideas were already cramming themselves into his mind. His inspiration had returned along with Geralt of Rivia, but Jaskier could not indulge it. He was not Geralt’s bard. He could not sing of him.

“Mr. Pankratz.” A footman poked his head in. “There are two Witchers calling upon you. Eskel and Lambert were the names given.”

Oh ho ho, a distraction! Delightful. “I shall be down at once.”

‘At once’ of course meant after he cycled through ten outfits to find the best one, tried to tame his hair, and washed his face. He found the two Witchers seated in the drawing room.

Lambert appeared grudgingly impressed with the state of the bookshelves. “Quite a collection you have.”

“It is the work of many generations,” Jaskier replied. “My sister and I take quite seriously the art of expanding it.”

Lambert instantly began to grill him, and Jaskier answered all with a ready smile. He was more than happy to indulge Lambert, for after dealing with the intensity of Geralt’s gazes, there was none else that could faze him.

“I must say,” Eskel said, when Lambert’s interrogations had at last been exhausted. “You are not what I expected from Geralt’s comments of you.”

“Oh? Geralt of Rivia and I are not known to flatter one another, so you must take what each one of us says towards the other with a bucket of salt.” Jaskier forced himself to smile.

“You must understand, he had no qualm against your character. It was only that he said the oddest thing,” Eskel explained. “That you were so altered, he should not have known you.”

…well, fucking _ouch_. Jaskier hid his wince even as it felt like someone had scraped a knife along his ribs.

“My last year has been a sobering one,” he replied.

“You seem full of vigor to me,” Eskel said. Jaskier could not ascertain if it was flirtatious or not—Eskel’s manner was so affable, it was difficult to make out.

In any case, he did not wish for a flirtation. But a genial partnership, that was quite within his desires.

“I find myself recently regained in inspiration and energy.” Jaskier smiled at them both. “Perhaps it is the presence of partnerless Witchers.”

Lambert rolled his eyes, but Eskel laughed. “You are forward.”

“I am honest.”

Lambert scoffed. “Well, I can see why Geralt suggested we get to know you.”

“Geralt suggested it?”

“He knows we are both in need of a bard, and you in desire of a Witcher.” Eskel spread his hands out as if to say _well, here we are_. “He seemed desirous to do you a good turn.”

It was guilt, most likely, for things said and done in the past. Jaskier wished he could tell Geralt that such gestures were quite unnecessary. It was Jaskier who was to blame for the mess of their relationship, not Geralt.

“Geralt is the sort of man that grows on you the more you know of him,” Jaskier replied. “And he is loyal to his friends. He evidently considers you such and I’m honored he thinks I could be a worthy partner for either of you.”

Lambert muttered something unintelligible but Eskel smiled at him. All right, then, Jaskier thought. Geralt did not want him. Geralt did not need him.

He would have to make do with someone else.

* * *

Yennefer had long since learned the wisdom of the old adage to keep one’s friends close and one’s enemies closer.

Therefore, she invited Fringilla to tea the very next day after Calanthe’s ball.

Her fellow sorceress received the summons with grace, and seemed all affability—perhaps too much so. The familiarity she seemed eager to bestow upon Yennefer felt forced, and too sudden. There was a calculation to it that Yennefer had often used herself, and so recognized in others.

“What is your purpose visiting our little county?” she asked, after some talk of people they knew in common, and the weather, and the state of the war with Napoleon.

“I’m sure I don’t have to hide my intentions from one such as you.” Fringilla smiled. “I have long wished to establish an acquaintance with Tissaia, and that was my aim in coming here. I know that I am a sorceress in my own right now, but I wish to learn from her what I can.”

Yennefer’s stomach did an odd twist at the use of her mentor’s first name. “I see.”

It made perfect sense. Tissaia was a renowned instructor. Why wouldn’t Fringilla want to learn from her?

“I confess,” Fringilla went on, “I had no idea she would be a lady of such beauty and affability.”

Affability? Tissaia? The woman that all the students at Aretuza compared to a dragon?

“You must know of this, since you are so close with her,” Fringilla’s voice lowered to one of intimacy, “but I think she is in need of a partner.”

“Tissaia has never entertained marriage,” Yennefer blurted out, her whole body numb with shock.

Fringilla laughed. “Oh, do forgive me! I misspoke. I meant a partner in running Aretuza. A co-headmistress. Although I am certain whoever should win her hand would be a rare and fortunate bird indeed, I spoke only professionally.”

Yennefer felt rather ill. Did this woman mean to try and insinuate herself into Tissaia’s good graces and win a post at Aretuza? Not merely a post, but help to run the place as Tissaia’s equal?

Why had she said Tissaia was _affable?_

“You must excuse me,” Yennefer blurted out. “But it is time I departed for my next appointment—do enjoy your tea, and avail yourself of my library if you wish, it is all open to you—forgive me—”

She hurried out of doors, but even there, the ability to breathe seemed to escape her.


	8. Chapter 8

_One Year and Ten Months Ago_

Geralt and Mousesack had to deal with this blasted kikimora in the local pond before it started actually killing anyone off instead of merely scaring them.

“I really don’t see why Calanthe is so against Aretuza and sorcery when she’ll allow Witchers and druids to help her out,” Mousesack observed as they made their way over the grounds.

“Hmm.”

“One would think, given Pavetta’s own magic…”

Geralt held up a fist and Mousesack fell silent as they approached. All right. If all went according to plan, Mousesack should be able to use his druid magic to help hold the kikimora in place while Geralt attacked it.

…it did not go according to plan.

* * *

Jaskier had spent the past two weeks cooped up with Sabrina, and occasionally Miss Merigold as well, taking care of his sister. The cold, brought on after such a hard walk in the rain and after many weeks of stress taking care of Mother, combined to give Sabrina a much worser illness. The doctors did not wish to jump to pneumonia, but they urged caution and Miss Merigold would not hear of Sabrina being moved.

As far as their romance was concerned, Jaskier was beyond joy. What could such intimacy and time do except strengthen their bond?

As far as him staying to watch over Sabrina, well. It would be tactful to say that Geralt was testing the bounds of Jaskier’s patience.

Today, unfortunately, Lady Yennefer and Istredd were calling, and Jaskier had no wish to be a part of that. While he did appreciate being an ally for poor dear Miss Merigold by taking on Yennefer’s barbs, that also left Miss Merigold open to conversing only with Istredd, and Jaskier did not wish to encourage Yennefer’s obvious designs in that matter.

Instead, he was talking a lovely walk. It was warm out, with a slight breeze, the perfect weather—why not visit the pond? It had been some time since he had gone out.

And now he was in proper clothes for it, for he had sent a servant to fetch some of his wardrobe rather than continuing to wear Geralt’s clothes. The Witcher would forever be glaring at Jaskier and he did not wish to impose on the man any further, even though Mousesack seemed to find the entire thing an excellent prank on his friend.

Since there was no one about, and the weather was so fine, Jaskier brought his lute along and idly strummed out some tunes as he walked. There were some ideas batting around in the back of his mind, nothing too solid as of yet, and he—

So absorbed was he in the contemplation of his songwriting that he had no idea he was witness to a battle until he literally stumbled upon it.

Mousesack, the poor man, was out cold in the grass by the pond while a massive, black, half-insectoid, half-cephalopod sort of creature flailed in the water, the surface black with its blood. The monster, of a sort Jaskier could not name, seemed to be in the middle of its death throes, although he could not be certain.

Jaskier would be no good against such a monster, but he did know some basic medicine. He dashed to Mousesack to ensure the man’s survival. Luckily only a bump on the head seemed to be the issue, and he had not swallowed any water.

The creature gave a final roar and fell back, and the water churned and bubbled. And that—that was when Jaskier realized Mousesack had not been alone.

Bursting up out of the water was Geralt of Rivia.

But not as Jaskier had ever seen him. The man’s skin was now a sickly chalk white. Black veins pulsed through his body, and his eyes were completely swallowed by the night. At some point his armor had been ripped off, or perhaps he’d thrown it off, and he wore only his trousers and a white shirt, both of which stuck to him from the water.

Jaskier swallowed hard, his throat dry. He was not—that is, he had known from the first what Geralt looked like, this was hardly—but it was one thing—and quite another altogether—

He felt a bit faint. Had the day suddenly gotten hotter? It was _very_ hot where he was standing.

The white shirt was just see-through enough that Jaskier could see (aside from the many, many, many… firm… oh God…) a multitude of scars. Slashes, stabs, burns, bites, and more to which he couldn’t quite assign a cause, scattered across Geralt’s body like constellations in the sky. There was a story behind each one, Jaskier was sure, and his mouth went from dry to watering as he contemplated learning those stories.

It reminded him what a hard life Witchers had. How it was still dangerous, even as civilization progressed. They still put themselves between the rest of the world and the most visceral of danger, and Jasier felt—he felt grateful.

Also unbearably turned on.

To his horror, there was nowhere to hide, and as the monster in the pond finished dying, Geralt turned to see what had happened to his friend.

Their eyes caught.

“Jaskier.” Geralt’s voice was even rougher and lower now. It sounded as though he’d dredged it up from the bottom of this very pond.

“I was out on a walk, and I found—I wanted to make sure he was all right.”

Geralt walked up to him, dripping everywhere. His wet trousers made—well. Jaskier had been wearing the man’s clothes for a few days so he already sort of knew Geralt’s measurements but…

He forced himself to look up into the Witcher’s face.

“And is he?” Geralt asked. “All right?”

“Oh. Yes. Well, I mean, he seems to be. Hit his head, that’s why he’s unconscious, but I didn’t feel any breaking or bleeding and the rest of him seems quite—but of course you never know with head injuries do you? If he wakes up and doesn’t know who the king is then we might have a cause for concern—”

“Nobody knows who the bloody king is,” Geralt muttered. “Why else would they be calling it the regency?”

Jaskier blurted out a strangled laugh, and then stared. “Did you just make a joke?”

Geralt ignored him and went to go fetch his sword and armor.

Mousesack stirred, and Jaskier helped him to sit. “Careful.”

The druid took in the dead monster, Geralt up to his thighs in water as he fished torn piece of armor out of the pond, and Jaskier kneeling beside him. “You seem rather chipper.”

“Well, monster’s dead, and you seem to know who I am, so, what’s not to be chipper over?”

Mousesack glanced at Geralt, who still had his back to them, and then lowered his voice. “Most people, even people who are kindly disposed towards Witchers, do not take all that well to seeing them in the grip of one of their potions.”

“Oh, is that why he’s all…” Jaskier pointed at his eyes and wiggled his fingers. “Well that makes sense, I was beginning to wonder if that was his true form and the rest of the time he merely glamoured himself.”

“Like the fae?”

“Well you never know with Witchers, do you?”

Mousesack gave Jaskier an odd look. “And if this had been his true form, what would you say to that?”

“My objections to Geralt are in regards to his scintillating conversation skills. They have nothing to do whatsoever with how he may look.” Jaskier paused. “My parents are all about—appearances. I value them, certainly, as do we all. But I have learned not to put all of a person’s merit on the cut of their jib.”

He helped Mousesack to his feet, right as Geralt walked up to join them. He was still dripping wet. Drops of water were sliding down his sternum where the buttons on his shirt parted, the fabric of the sleeves twisted around his biceps, the taut black fabric of his trousers highlighted his broad thighs—

Jaskier would die before admit it to anyone, but if Mousesack had been absent and Geralt had offered, Jaskier would have been on his back with his legs spread faster than you could say ‘improper’.

He cut his eyes away. A roll in the hay now and again, so long as both parties were discreet, was all well and good—but not with a man who had insulted him so! Not with a man who seemed determined to hate Jaskier. Jaskier was determined to hate him for the rest of his life and he would not be swayed, no matter how much his neglected cock tried to convince him otherwise.

“If you’re able, Geralt, I can very well take Mousesack back to ensure he’s checked up by Miss Merigold.”

Geralt blinked at him. “Hmm. Fine.”

“Unless you need assistance with your armor. I’m happy to—”

Something flickered in Geralt’s eyes. “Are you offering to help me?”

“Yes?” Jaskier bristled. “Why, is my help not good enough for you, Witcher?”

Geralt snorted. “Best run along, bard. I can handle this myself and I doubt you wish to be up to your elbows in kikimora guts.”

“You judge me too harshly.” Jaskier grinned. “I’m not afraid to get my hands a little dirty. But I shall leave you to your work. I should hate to force my company upon you when you so plainly wish to be alone.”

Geralt looked as though he might say something more, but instead grunted again and turned away.

Well. That would be that, then.

Jaskier turned away. Ridiculous Witcher with his ridiculous muscles. He would put it out of his mind.

* * *

Yennefer refused to let Sabrina Pankratz’s illness deter her. Why, it was simply a matter of having Istredd call upon Triss regularly. No invalid could truly occupy a hostess’s time constantly, and Triss would find Istredd’s kind and gentle nature, his affability and consideration, a welcome diversion after attending to her guest.

Once again, she had Istredd pick her up in his carriage so they might make their way to Triss Merigold’s together. Istredd was in a most pleasant, dare she say even buoyant, mood.

“And what is that secret little smile for?” Yennefer asked him. “Do not hold back on me, Istredd, you know I have no patience.”

“Well. You will know sooner than anyone else anyhow, but I must implore you to keep this to yourself for the present.” Istredd pressed her hand between his. “Dear Yennefer, I have at last secured the post for which I had long hoped. It is in Egypt, studying antiquities, with many esteemed professors.”

“Istredd! I could not be happier for you!” Yennefer allowed a moment of delicate pause. “Except that you will be so far away from all for whom you care. I know it is not my place to dictate your life, far from it, but I should think that… you would be much aided by a companion. Perhaps one who shared your passions for archeology?”

“Yennefer.” Istredd’s smile was broad in a way that he hardly allowed himself. “You and I are of one mind.”

They pulled up in front of Triss Merigold’s, and Yennefer looked forward to another diverting afternoon. Speaking of diverting, perhaps Geralt would be there. That would make this day as near to perfect as possible.

* * *

Geralt returned covered in kikimora guts and blood, and so was obliged to take the servant’s entrance so that he could wash up without dripping bile all over Triss’ clean floors. It was on his way back, after having cleaned up, that he heard it.

Singing.

It was being done in a wing that was unoccupied, for Netherfield had been designed as an estate for one with a family and Triss was alone, and Geralt could not help but follow it. The voice was—deeper and richer than any he had heard in quite some time, soaring to unexpected and undoubtedly tricky heights.

Geralt knew he should not indulge himself. He ought to go downstairs to the drawing room—he had seen Lady Yennefer’s carriage—and avail himself for the sake of his host. Lady Yennefer was the person he ought to focus on. A lady of power and allure, one he’d never met the equal of before. If his heart was to be so captured, should it not be by her?

But his feet took him down the hall, towards the voice.

Whatever melancholy melody the singer had been using before, now they quite changed their tune—literally—and began to sing some entertaining if bawdy tune, something about abortions.

Geralt paused in the doorway, the door open just enough for him to see inside.

Jaskier strode, no, pranced idly about the wide, empty room, strumming his lute. His fingers moved quickly, dexterously, and it struck Geralt suddenly, as it simply had not before, that Jaskier was _talented_.

Geralt could not carry a tune himself beyond a simple lullaby, and he had no gift for instruments, but he had spent time with a bard before and he knew how to recognize skill when he saw it. Jaskier had it in spades.

But the man was in his late twenties. Most bards and others of similar professions began their careers when they were fresh out of university, eighteen and nineteen, fresh-faced and eager.

He recalled what Pavetta had said of Jaskier, and the disapproval of his family. Geralt felt a hot, raging ache in his chest, wondering how many opportunities, how much of his career, Jaskier’s parents had stolen from him.

Jaskier grew more animated, doing a little jump now and again, grinning through his singing as he launched into a tune about monsters.

Oh, Lord, that was horribly inaccurate. Had Jaskier written it? Geralt hoped not.

He crept closer, dared to open the door a bit farther—and his foot hit a creaking board.

Fuck. A monster hunter, and he couldn’t avoid a damn noisy floorboard.

Jaskier leapt a mile and whipped around, his cheeks flushed. “Ah. Geralt.” His voice as rather strangled. “I didn’t—ah. Well.” He bowed with a flourish. “You’re one of the first to hear some of my compositions. Congratulations.”

Geralt admired the bard’s refusal to let others faze him. Geralt felt like all he did was allow others to grate on him, and he wished for Jaskier’s ability to laugh it all off.

“Well, since you did hear me,” Jaskier said, coming up out of his bow, “surely you must have some thoughts on my performance. Go on. Three words or less.”

Jaskier’s fingers drummed on his lute, and Geralt tried not to be distracted. “They don’t exist.”

“What?”

“The monsters you’re singing about. They don’t exist.”

“Ah.” Jaskier smiled in a way that would have been mocking if it was a little less gentle and a little less joyful. “You mean to frighten me. But I must warn you, there’s a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at the will of others. My courage always rises with every attempt to intimidate me.”

“I can tell.”

Jaskier did not seem to take this for the compliment it was. “I thought I wouldn’t bother anyone in this part of the house, but it seems I was wrong. Shall we, then? I believe there’s a sorceress in need of our attentions.”

Geralt had to resist the urge to offer Jaskier his arm. “Hmm.”

Perhaps it was all for the better. If Jaskier had kept singing, Geralt could have found himself in danger.

* * *

The visit with Istredd to Triss Merigold’s had gone splendidly. Istredd had told Triss such stories from his school days at Aretuza that she had been laughing gaily, and when Yennefer had prompted him, Istredd had been quick to compliment Triss.

And now, with his post secured… Yennefer had little doubt that a proposal would be forthcoming, perhaps by tomorrow afternoon. She must ensure that Triss’ other visitors would be otherwise occupied so that Istredd would not have the awkwardness of requesting their banishment to speak with Triss alone.

Jaskier had been a bit more prickly than usual, and Mousesack more subdued, but what did that matter when she’d gotten to flirt with Geralt and her aim of securing Triss with Istredd was all but certain? Geralt had been more obliging than usual to her teases. She wondered what had changed. Perhaps he was merely one of those who needed time to grow warm in his manner—Yennefer could certainly appreciate that.

“A most diverting afternoon,” Yennefer announced as Istredd helped her into the carriage. “Truly. Is Miss Merigold not the epitome of grace and cordiality?”

“Perhaps,” Istredd noted. “She and I have much in common, I fear to praise her would be to praise my own features.”

“Well, is that not what one wishes for? To find others who are of a like mind?”

“A like mind, perhaps, but not entirely a like temperament. I am a believer in the adage that opposites attract. It encourages a balance in one’s partnership.”

Yennefer sat in astonishment, for such words were not encouraging—and then her astonishment turned to a deep and horrible shock as Istredd took her hand in his and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.

For one of the rare times in her life, Yennefer found herself speechless. She could hardly listen to what Istredd said as he launched into his speech—as he professed his long-standing love for her ever since they had been students together—how he had not a hope until recently—when Yennefer’s talks of marriage and hints of partnership—her hints indeed!—had prevailed upon him, and now that he had been granted his post—

She could endure it no longer. Yennefer snatched her hand back, her face aflame. “Istredd. You are a dear friend to me, always dear from the start, but how can you be so mistaken? Surely it is Miss Merigold whom you love. I have observed your deference to her myself.”

“Miss Merigold?” Istredd looked as though Yennefer had told him magic did not exist. “Any compliments I paid to her were at your insistence. I treated her with deference as your dear friend and one-time pupil. You seemed to hold a particular fondness for her and so I tried to treat her in kind. It was only out of love for you, respect, the deepest respect—”

“Istredd.” Yennefer’s tone grew sharper. “This will not do. If you inform me you are not, indeed, in love with Triss Merigold then we have nothing to say to each other. I am not interested in holding your dustpan and brushes while you scrape about in the dirt!”

Her friend flushed and looked as though she had slapped him, and Yennefer nearly burst into tears with vexation. She did not wish to harm anyone, to break any hearts. How could this have gone so wrong?

The rest of the carriage ride was filled with a thick, burning silence. Yennefer had never felt so painfully awkward in her life.

She arrived back at her home, but she could not enjoy the dark, empty halls and the silences that judged her. She took a portal at once to Aretuza.

Tissaia was in her study, grading papers on magical theory, when Yennefer strode in. “Yenna, if you really must—” She looked up and saw the expression on Yennefer's face. “Yenna. What is the matter? What has happened?”

Yennefer nearly choked on the tears that threatened to fall. “You were quite right, that is all. I wish to inform you that you—you had the right of it. Istredd had no romantic designs on Triss. I encouraged nothing except for his foolish hopes regarding me. And now Triss will be heartbroken, and I have wounded Istredd deeply and he is all in a huff, and—”

Tissaia, to her credit, did not gloat. She only stood and crossed to Yennefer so that she might raise a thumb and wipe a stray tear from Yennefer’s cheek. “Do not despair so mightily, Yenna.” She tipped her head to the side and gave a small, tight-lipped smile. “You could never have made Istredd happy, and he is the last person in the world who could make you so. As for Triss, pay it no mind.”

Yennefer nodded. She vexed Tissaia, and Tissaia vexed her in return, but Yennefer truly trusted her. Tissaia had been the first to see something of greatness in her and she had never rested until Yennefer had reached her full potential.

“There now, that’s my lightning storm. If you knew the ways of everyone’s hearts at five and twenty I would have to go into retirement.”

Yennefer knew that Tissaia was not one for a great deal of physical affection, but she nonetheless threw her arms around the older woman’s neck and kissed her cheek. “I should be lost without you.”

Tissaia gently took Yennefer by the waist and pushed her back. “I am glad to know you still appreciate my wisdom and don’t see me as a crotchety old fool. Now, some of us have work to do.”

She went back to her desk, but Yennefer, now in better spirits, followed. “An old fool? Miss de Vries, never let it be said that you are either. Why, I know of people half your age who are not as elegant or ageless.”

Yennefer draped herself across Tissaia’s lap and tipped her head onto her shoulder. “Do not let me hear you call yourself so. As for being a fool, there is only one of us here tonight who was so mistaken as to embarrass both herself and her friend.”

She fiddled with the lace on Tissaia’s bodice. “Anyway you cannot go back to your paperwork. I am in distress and need distracting.”

Tissaia’s fingers gripped the arms of her chair, undoubtedly in irritation. “The students are up whispering to one another, perhaps you ought to go and aid them in breaking some minor rules regarding herbology.”

Yennefer laughed. “I always knew that you were aware when I encouraged them to stray. And here I thought you were forever telling me to save my chaos.”

“Well. Letting a little of it slip cannot do too much harm.” Tissaia allowed herself a small smile.

Yennefer tugged on Tissaia’s lace and Tissaia’s cheeks went pink. “Off you go, corrupt my youth, make me scold them in the morning.”

“I will do my utmost.” Yennefer promised her. She wiggled her finger to heat up Tissaia’s tea, since the woman was perpetually allowing it to go cold, and then went off to get the Aretuza students as high as fucking possible.

* * *

_Present Day_

Jaskier jumped as the door opened, shoving his notes underneath some personal papers as… oh, it was only a servant.

Not that he didn’t put it past some servants to peek at his papers, but they could say what they liked if they found some of his verses. It was Sabrina or Triss finding them that worried him.

After the disaster that had been both Geralt and Yennefer hearing him sing _Her Sweet Kiss,_ despite Jaskier’s pride in the piece, he couldn’t sing it again and he was determined not to perform or even write more songs about Geralt.

And yet, his muse had other ideas. Namely fixating most annoyingly on Geralt.

There had been a great deal of cursing and debating in his mind, and after a time, he had decided that it would be best if he simply went with his inspiration and wrote out his thoughts. He wouldn’t perform, wouldn’t publish, and it would be purged from his mind and he could devote himself entirely to the conundrum of Eskel and Lambert.

That they were accomplished Witchers, there was no doubt. That any bard would be excited to partner with them, there was also little doubt in Jaskier’s mind. But did he like either of them well enough to partner with them? Eskel’s affability was admirable, but would it bore Jaskier over time? Lambert’s gruffness was fun to play with, but would it remind him too much of Geralt and what he couldn’t have?

The servant coughed. “Mr. Pankratz, your sister requests you downstairs. It appears there is a package arrived for you.”

“Oh.” How delightful. From whom could it be? “I shall be down at once.”

Sabrina and Triss were both in the drawing room, staring down in surprise, and perhaps a little bit of amusement on the part of Triss, at a large package.

“Julian.” Sabrina nodded towards the package. “This came for you. There was no name for the sender.”

“How intriguing! I hope it’s not a prank, Yennefer would do such a thing after the whole song debacle the other day.” He tore open the package—and froze.

It was—it—

Triss inhaled sharply. “Is that elven?”

Jaskier’s fingers shook a little as he lifted the lute out of the packaging. “It’s from Filavendrel’s workshop.”

There were no better lute makers in Europe, but the ability to get one was difficult now that there was a war between England and France. Jaskier cradled it carefully. Who could it possibly be from? Who would give him such a fine, expensive gift? And refuse to let their name be known?

“I think,” Sabrina said, her words careful, “that at least one of the Witchers you entertained the other day is more serious about making you his partner than we suspected.”

“Perhaps a partner in more ways than one, if I may dare to say so,” Triss added. “This is too fine a gift for only a professional matter. Jaskier, you’re being wooed.”

Surely it must be Eskel, then, for he seemed the type and seemed to truly like Jaskier. But then—he had been wrong about how Witchers expressed affection before. Could Lambert be the sort who showed through ways other than words? Geralt had, after all—

Jaskier’s stomach turned sour. He didn’t want a gift, no matter how fine, from Eskel or Lambert or anyone else.

His fingers curled possessively around the lute. Nor could he reject the best instrument he’d ever held. This was not only a lute, it was a piece of art.

“Well, until they reveal their name, I shall keep this gift to myself and perform with my usual lute.”

Sabrina nodded approvingly. “To use it in public would be a possible acceptance of their courtship, and that would be foolish when you do not know who they are.”

Triss stared at the lute for a long moment, and then said in a voice that was not quite there, “Yes. Until you know more, perhaps it is best.”

“Tell no one, please, about this.”

Sabrina and Triss looked at one another, then back to him. “Of course, Julian,” Sabrina said. Her eyes were worried but her voice was as usual. “Whatever you wish.”

Jaskier looked down at the lute in his hands.

What on earth was he supposed to do with this?


	9. Chapter 9

_Present Day_

Since Eskel and Lambert had called upon him, it was only fair that Jaskier return the favor. And if he could suss out which of the two of them had gifted him the lute, so much the better.

The fact that both Witchers were invitees of Calanthe and therefore would be staying with her, allowing Jaskier to check up on Ciri, was an added benefit.

Ciri’s presence should have tipped him off to the possibility of there being another particular person at Cintra that day, but Jaskier could admit to himself that he tended to get into scrapes _before_ fully considering the consequences rather than after, and so it was with complete shock that he was shown into the drawing room to find Geralt in the middle of an intense discussion with Lambert.

Jaskier wished desperately to fling himself into the fire.

“Ah, Jaskier.” Lambert bowed. “Apologies, I am on my way out with Eskel to investigate the leshen.”

Jaskier had not the slightest idea what he stammered out in reply, but it seemed sufficiently polite for Lambert’s tastes, and the brunet Witcher departed.

Terrible silence fell.

Jaskier could not help but recall the first time he had danced with Geralt, and how the silence then had felt comfortable. How he had been loath to admit that was how it had felt to him, how he had broken it lest he forget that he had sworn to hate Geralt and come to think of him in a more positive light.

He would give anything to have that ease of manner back now, that warm silence. He would give even more to go back in time and slap his past self.

Before Jaskier could think of what to say, or Geralt could make an escape, a footman announced the entrance of Lady Yennefer.

…Yennefer, who looked as though she was on her way to find the best person to tear limb from limb.

“Tissaia!?” she snapped, storming through the room, past Jaskier—he doubted she had even seen him—and up to Geralt. “I’ve known her my entire life and I’ve never called her Tissaia once! But that upstart is here not even a fortnight and there she is calling her _Tissaia_ this and _Tissaia_ that!”

Yennefer poked Geralt in the chest. “It is not to be born!”

“I hate to jump to conclusions,” Geralt’s tone was dry, “but your manner suggests irritation.”

“I’m perfectly calm!” Yennefer said in a fevered voice.

“Did you come all the way to Cintra to complain to Geralt about someone getting too cozy with your Miss de Vries?” Jaskier asked wonderingly.

Yennefer, at last, took notice of him. “No, I came all this way to discuss something of great importance with Calanthe, it is merely fortunate that Geralt is also here.”

“I wish I wasn’t,” Geralt muttered.

“Fringilla is an upstart of the worst sort,” Yennefer declared with a passion that Jaskier had rarely heard from her. Yennefer, especially since Geralt had left, made it a habit to seem detached and disdainful at all times. “She intimated to me that her aim was to be named co-headmistress of Aretuza. As if Miss de Vries would ever consider sharing such a position! And even if she did it would be, it ought to be, with someone who went to Aretuza themselves!”

“Perhaps an outsider’s perspective would be beneficial,” Jaskier suggested. “New blood and all that.”

Geralt looked up at the ceiling like he was hoping it would fall and crush him.

The room got a tad bit darker and colder as Yennefer fixed her gaze upon Jaskier. “That… woman… partners… with… Miss de Vries… over my dead… _body_.”

“Yennefer,” Jaskier said, because he’d never had a sense of self-preservation and he wasn’t going to get one now, “you may be the sexiest woman I have ever met but you are without a doubt also the most insane.”

“Why are you even here?” Yennefer snapped, as if he were a fly buzzing about her face.

 _To see Ciri,_ Jaskier meant to say, but what came out instead was, “To inquire as to who gifted me with my lute.”

The room returned to its normal state of light and warmth as Yennefer blinked at him. “Your lute? You have your lute.”

“Ah, well, you see, that is—it’s really nothing, nothing at all, don’t bother yourself about it, didn’t you say you had to see Calanthe? I’m sure it was rather important.”

Geralt seemed to be in a staring contest with one of the portraits on the wall.

“No, no,” Yennefer purred. “Do go on. What’s this about a lute?”

Jaskier would have given his perfect pitch to have Geralt not be in the room at this moment. “Someone… I was… that is… a person has been kind enough to gift me with a lute of a very fine make, but they neglected to include their name. I hoped to… well actually I didn’t, or I mean—I didn’t mean _this_ way, I only—I should like to know who sent it.”

“And you think it was someone here?” Yennefer asked archly.

“The house where two Witchers are staying both of whom are in need of a bard?” Jaskier replied, deadpan. “Yes.”

“Lambert,” Yennefer declared. “He would be the sort. Insult you to your face and then gift you something kindly behind your back. He’s a soft touch underneath, all Witchers are.”

Geralt glared at her.

“I’d prefer to draw no conclusions,” Jaskier replied. “Besides, if we may be candid, I am well aware that the entire country holds pity for me that my career was halted by my parents’ machinations. It would not go beyond reason to suppose that any number of kind and thoughtful people would wish to gift me such a lute now that I am able to actually use it to its fullest extent.”

“I will concede your point there,” Yennefer said.

Jaskier suspected that she was latching so animatedly onto his own little problem because it was so diverting and provided a distraction from her genuine anger over Lady Fringilla.

“I do so hate to admit it, bard, but we have all hoped for you to succeed in your path. I have rarely seen someone so certain about his choice in life.”

“You sound almost wistful, Yennefer, careful—we can’t have anyone thinking you are less than satisfied with your life.”

“Where the fuck is Calanthe,” Geralt muttered, as if to himself. He went to stand over by the window.

“Well, perhaps I envy those who strive to make a true choice in life rather than those who feel they are buffeted about by destiny and then left wanting, without any desires at all.”

That softened Jaskier a little. “Yennefer, to desire to have a desire is, in and of itself, a desire.”

“Not your most poetic composition.”

“Give me some points for improvisation.”

“Destiny,” Geralt said with sudden heat, “is a curse.”

Jaskier stared at him. “How can you say such a thing when it brought you Ciri?”

Geralt did not look at him.

“They say it is destiny that brings certain people into one another’s lives,” Yennefer mused.

“But it is up to us what we do with it,” Jaskier countered. “Simply because two people are inclined to fit together in some way does not mean we are obliged to finish the puzzle and make it so. If a game of bridge was ongoing, that is no reason to sit down at the table, you can walk on.”

“Or you could have a thing thrust upon you without desire or warning and with no way to get rid of it,” Geralt noted. He continued to stare out the window.

“Are you certain that it’s destiny you speak of?” Yennefer asked. “Unless I am greatly mistaken you seem enamored of little Cirilla.”

“Ciri,” Geralt said with difficulty, “is a miracle. To all of us.”

“You sound as though you are undergoing a painful surgery.”

“Damn it all, Yen, what do you want me to say? You cannot deny, even if you were not present, that my foolish choice to take on the Law of Surprise has caused grief to us all. Calanthe faces the loss of her grandchild, Kaer Morhen has to reckon with the politics of a gentleman’s daughter as a student, Pavetta and Duny died—”

“You think Pavetta and Duny died because of you?” Jaskier asked. His heart felt like a baby bird in his chest.

Geralt opened his mouth, closed it, then said, stiffly, to Yennefer, “How is it you always convince me to say the very last thing I mean to share?”

“Talent,” Yennefer replied acidly. “If you think destiny such a curse I am shocked that you tried to invoke it in the past. I suppose I should be gratified that I am not the only person who gave you cause to regret such hasty choices.”

Jaskier had a strong suspicion creeping through his mind that Yennefer referenced a particular event, an exchange of words, but he did not know what. He knew that Geralt and Yennefer had been—possibly something—before Geralt had—but then Jaskier and Geralt had their argument, and Geralt left England.

Had Yennefer been jilted? No, surely not. Nobody, and most certainly not a half-feral idiot such as himself, could overturn Yennefer if she held a high place in someone’s heart. Yennefer would never allow it.

“I will not have such raised voices in my drawing room.”

All three turned to see the Lioness of Cintra, dressed all in black as she had been since the funeral, entering the room.

Jaskier bowed. “Mrs. Rhiannon. I crave your pardon, I sought your two other Witchers but they are out.”

“Mrs. Rhiannon.” Yennefer stepped forward. Calanthe’s face, already stiff, hardened further.

In a confrontation between a woman of fire and a woman of steel, Jaskier knew not which would emerge the victor.

“I hoped I could have an audience with you, for a short time,” Yennefer went on.

Calanthe’s gaze slid to Jaskier, then to Geralt.

Geralt bowed silently and left the room, apparently unwilling to pick which woman he would defend in this matter.

Jaskier followed. Ruined his relationship with Geralt might be, but he would rather be with the man than in between those two.

He would rather be miserable next to Geralt than anywhere else.

“Geralt. Do you truly think that?”

Geralt paused halfway across the foyer. “Hmm.”

“Do not play the fool with me. Pavetta and Duny. You believe their deaths to be your fault.”

Geralt seemed to weigh his options. “I left England. I left my Child Surprise. And they died.”

“No.” Jaskier hurried to step in front of Geralt, his arms spread wide. “No, Geralt, that is not how destiny works. You would have returned, you never abandoned Ciri, this is not your fault! We are in a war, tragedies happen!”

“You know my history,” Geralt snapped. “You know what I lost. Everyone for whom I have cared has fallen to death, one way or another, and lost all in the process. Now I dare not leave Cirilla’s side. Why do you think Calanthe distrusts me so even after all my years of loyalty?” He bared his teeth. “Because she knows where I go, death follows.”

“You are a melodramatic, brooding moron,” Jaskier replied, his temper also rising. “What happened before was not your fault, it was the fault of an arrogant empty-headed man. Pavetta and Duny are not your fault, and certainly nothing else is. Why go seeking out ways to punish yourself when all you have done is dared to care about others?”

“Witchers do not have families, Jaskier. They don’t have—the Path is a lonely one. That is how it ought to be. Even a partner with a bard, that is not—all bards leave in time.”

“And yet you proposed to me.”

“And I was a fool to do so.”

Jaskier felt as though someone had ripped his spine out.

Geralt’s gaze, which until now had bored into Jaskier’s, now turned away. “I was a fool to aim for other than what was laid out for me.”

“If I helped in any way to give you that impression then Geralt, dismiss it. Please.”

 _Was proposing foolish only because of the Path? Or because you regret falling for me at all?_ Jaskier’s mind screamed with smoky, panicked questions.

Geralt looked back at him and Jaskier nearly seized the stupid man’s armor to shake him until some sense fell in. “You deserve a—a romantic partner, if that’s what you wish. You deserve Ciri. Whatever you want, you aren’t bound by destiny or the Path.”

“Hmm.” Geralt looked as though he wished to snort in derision. “How are you enjoying your new lute?”

Jaskier glared at him. “You cannot change the subject on me, Geralt of Rivia.”

“You cannot change my mind in an instant, Mr. Pankratz.”

“Last name? A low blow, Geralt.”

“You started it.”

For a moment it was as it had been, the two of them bantering back and forth as though they were playing cricket, the entire rest of the world melting away, and Jaskier ached to take that small step in, to reach for Geralt, to confess the deep and complete change of heart he had undergone, the desire he no longer wished to deny—

Footsteps echoed, and Geralt stepped back, his gaze shuttering. Jaskier did his utmost to reign in his desire to scream in frustration, and he only just managed it.

Eist Tuirseach entered. He paused as he caught sight of them. “Jaskier. Geralt.”

All three bowed.

“I ought to check on our hostess and Lady Yennefer,” the gentleman said, and he politely retreated into the drawing room.

It was too late. The intimacy of the moment before had been broken and Jaskier knew not how to restore it. Geralt looked the picture of the stoic, impassive, emotionless Witcher, and unlike two years ago when Jaskier would cross every line, push too far, heedless and uncaring for any bruises he might press—now he couldn’t see where the lines were drawn, and how fresh or large the bruises loomed. He did not want to reopen any scars. The freedom to tease was no longer his.

Strange and unpleasant realization gripped him. He had not realized how intimate Geralt had allowed him to be, how liberal with his insults and his manner Jaskier had been with him before, until now as he stood on shaky ground and stared across the chasm between them.

“Geralt,” he said, the word trembling against his lips, but he could not continue. He had no idea what to follow with.

Geralt bowed. “I must attend to Ciri.”

He walked away, and Jaskier had to strangle the scream that rested in his throat.

* * *

Yennefer clasped her hands politely in front of her as Calanthe Fiona Riannon, the Lioness of Cintra, stared her down.

“Proud and reckless, that I knew,” Calanthe said. “But having enough of both to come to my home uninvited… that I hadn’t thought.”

Yennefer arched an eyebrow. “I would have thought you would expect such a thing, seeing as you are no less proud.”

“I am far from reckless.”

“Oh?” Yennefer looked around. “Is that another mistress of Cintra who allows Witchers to stay with her? Who openly draws the ire of Aretuza and every other magical school in the nation? Who has entertained dozens of suitors to achieve her ends, daring talk of impropriety, and never entering into a single proper understanding?”

Calanthe’s eyes narrowed. “You are a child of magic with everything handed to you on a plate, Aretuza’s star pupil. You cannot understand—”

“Do go on.” Yennefer pulled out some perfume to reapply it to her wrists. “Tell me how stuff works.”

Calanthe drummed her fingers against the back of a chair. “Tell me, child, how old were you when word of what Stregobor did reached our ears? Aretuza and Parliament did an excellent job of hushing up the entire thing but surely you heard something.”

Yennefer stayed still and kept her face fixed into an expression of icy neutrality. “Why do I suspect that you are about to tell me what he did, whether I heard of it or not?”

“He _dissected_ them,” Calanthe hissed. “He was a butcher. Long before Aretuza would admit to knowing what he did, or even that anything at all was being done, there were whispers. How can you or Miss de Vries expect me to allow my granddaughter to attend a school that harbored such a man? Not even a man—a monster. A foul, loathsome worm, forgotten by God.”

Calanthe now gripped the back of the chair to the point where the upholstery creaked.

Yennefer remained calm. “A school is more than an individual instructor. You know the destruction that was wrought when Pavetta unleashed her magic, unlearned, unchecked. You have injured us in ways both large and small and we have often returned the favor. I am aware of the barbs that our estates have thrown at one another over the years. But surely you can think of the future and set aside the past, as we all must for the sake of our children.”

“Oh? And you have children?”

It was a blow that many would not have dared to give, but Calanthe did not care for propriety in battle—only for the killing strike. Yennefer could not completely hide her flinch.

“I have power,” she replied. “More of it in my pinky finger than you in your entire body, your entire estate, with all of your money and lands.”

“Go to hell,” Calanthe snapped.

“I come to you to make overtures!” Yennefer snapped. “To educate your granddaughter, to have Cirilla be taught by the most powerful sorceress in England, and you—”

“The most powerful, cold, haughty, self-centered woman in England—”

“I ordered for tea to be brought in,” Eist said.

Calanthe stared past Yennefer’s shoulder, out the window, as though asking some higher power, wearily, for patience. “We do not wish to be interrupted.”

“My dear, when was the last time I did as you wished?” Eist queried.

“You would, if you knew what was good for you.”

“Lady Yennefer,” Eist said, neatly stepping around Calanthe, who gave him a stony look, “Is there a particular sort of tea you prefer?”

“Eist,” Calanthe snapped.

“Calanthe,” Eist replied.

Yennefer did not understand their relationship. Eist was at Cintra more than at his own estate and they addressed one another with an air of casual intimacy, and yet their conversations were filled with almost nothing but barbs and arguments. They were diametrically opposed in almost every matter.

Still, perhaps Calanthe kept Eist around for amusement. He did know his agriculture, and could be helpful around the estate.

“I think, perhaps, this is a matter for Miss de Vries to discuss with Mrs. Rhiannon,” Eist suggested, taking a seat in preparation for tea. “But that is merely my opinion. In the meantime, perhaps we can enjoy some refreshments and attempt to discuss the weather like civilized people?”

Yennefer and Calanthe sized one another up, a viper and a lion, neither willing to give quarter.

But then, a truce was not a surrender. It was merely a temporary halt to hostilities.

Could the fool woman not see that Yennefer only wished to help? That she was doing this out of a sincere desire to help a child in whom she saw the same lost look she’d beheld in her own eyes her first days at Aretuza whenever she’d looked in the mirror?

Yennefer took a deep breath. “Mrs. Rhiannon. You might not believe it, and you are welcome to your opinions. But my motives are altruistic. I know what it is to possess a deep and unusual power, one that you cannot understand or control. When you experience deep emotional turmoil, your hold upon your magic becomes even more tenuous. I wish only to help Cirilla.”

Calanthe inhaled as if to speak, and speak plainly, but Eist placed a hand on her wrist. “Let us have tea together,” he said, speaking quietly. “And perhaps we shall see what will happen.”

Yennefer seated herself. Calanthe did the same.

They would see, indeed.

* * *

Geralt was too late to go and join Eskel and Lambert as they went to ascertain the reach of the leshen, and so he was obliged to take Roach for another ride, instead. This time, Ciri accompanied him.

He suspected that Yennefer and Calanthe’s voices would not remain lowered for long and he wished for Ciri to be spared more arguments over her future.

They were gone all afternoon, and most productive it was, if the aim was to raise Ciri’s spirits. She was a wild creature at heart, like her grandmother, and whooped and hollered, blasting Geralt off his feet and using her voice to impede Roach to win races.

Geralt had to carry her back into the house from the stables, her arms wrapped around his neck and her soft snoring in his ear.

He had not asked for this child, and he had not wanted her. He knew, in his heart, the deep and abiding pain that his choice had done to Pavetta, to Duny, to Calanthe. His foolish, reckless words had changed the course of all their lives, for Destiny, stupid, cursed Destiny, would not be fought.

Oh, they had all made nice for society. Pavetta and Duny had appeared to come to like him well enough, for they were kind-hearted people. But Geralt knew the damage he had done, the rift he had created.

And yet—if someone had asked him to give up this girl in his arms, he would have fought them until his last breath and perhaps beyond. He loved her impossibly.

Geralt took Ciri upstairs and handed her off to the governess to be bathed and sent to bed, then retired to his own rooms to change for supper.

His rooms were not empty.

Geralt caught a whiff of perfume, and placed his hand on the pommel of his sword, only to register a moment later that he recognized the scent—spring rain and matching flowers—pansies, tulips, daffodils.

He relaxed and stepped into his rooms. “Triss.”

Triss had seated herself on the edge of his bed and now stood, smoothing out her pale pink skirts. “Geralt.”

“We must stop meeting like this,” Geralt said dryly. “Whatever would darling Sabrina say?”

“Do close your door, Geralt, servants have ears and not all of them possess a solid grasp of sarcasm.”

Geralt did as he was told.

“As a matter of fact, my wife does not know I am here.” Triss took a few steps toward him. “And I suspect in a moment you shall appreciate that.”

“Hmm.”

Triss’ face was firm in a way Geralt had rarely seen it. “Do not lie to me. I will not appreciate it, years of friendship or no, not when the happiness of my wife is at stake—and do not laugh at me, Geralt, I know you have never been fond of her but Sabrina does feel deeply, and her brother’s happiness or sadness is as her own. So.”

Triss arched her eyebrows and tilted her head to the side. “Why did you gift Jaskier with that elven lute?”

“Fuck,” said Geralt.


	10. Chapter 10

_One Year and Ten Months Ago_

Oddly, since a few days ago, Lady Yennefer and Istredd had not been at all present at Netherfield. Jaskier rather considered it a blessing but he did have to wonder what it was that had caused the sorceress to be deterred from her aim.

Ah, well. If it brought him peace and quiet in which to read his book, then what did it matter?

“To whom are you writing?” Mousesack asked.

It was a quiet afternoon at Netherfield. Sabrina was feeling much better, but the illness had quite worn her out and so she was obliged to sleep most of the day. Miss Merigold had been reading to her during such periods when Sabrina was awake, and so was upstairs now.

Jaskier was lounging, and most attractively if he might be so bold as to make the claim himself, on the couch in the library. Geralt sat at the desk, penning a few letters, while Mousesack, apparently bored, paced about the room.

“Kaer Morhen,” Geralt said briefly.

“Ah, anyone I would know?”

“No.”

There was a certain comfort, Jaskier thought, in knowing that Geralt was as taciturn with his friends as he was with others.

“To whom is it addressed, then?”

“Vesemir.”

Jaskier’s ears perked up. Ah, the man that Marx had mentioned, the one he had said was quite honorable and for whose sake he would not publicly disclose Geralt’s behavior.

“Ah. How does he get on?”

“Fine.”

“Have you word on any of your brothers?”

“Eskel has adopted a goat.”

“Has he now. Of course he would, that is the most Eskel thing I have ever heard.” Mousesack paused, peering over Geralt’s shoulder. “You write such long letters, Geralt. I doubt anyone who heard you speak would expect you to fill five sheafs of paper.”

“Hmm.”

“I suppose some of us are better in writing than out loud.”

“Hmm.”

“Has Lambert got himself a bard yet?”

“No.”

“A pity. At this rate he never will get one, and he certainly could use one. Not all Witchers have your good fortune.”

“Hmm.”

“I suppose he would be picky about it.”

Geralt’s patience seemed to be wearing thin, although Jaskier was not sure why that should be. Geralt was usually amiable with Mousesack and his answers, although short, did not hold the bite of temper.

“Lambert understands that there is no value in taking on a bard unless that bard is truly accomplished.”

“Surely there are plenty of accomplished bards about.”

“I know of no more than half a dozen, and all are already secured as partners to other Witchers.”

“And what would you consider to be accomplished?” Mousesack needled.

The druid seemed to be aiming at something, but Jaskier for the life of him couldn’t see what his target was.

Geralt sighed and set aside his pen, as if resigning himself. “I don’t know, Mousesack, why don’t you tell me?”

“Well.” Mousesack shrugged. “I am no Witcher. I have not given it much thought. But in my mind a bard ought to have a thorough knowledge of music, dances, and poetry. Must be amiable and quick-witted, and possess at least a passing understanding of monsters. And in addition to this there ought to be something pleasing and magnetic in their manner, the sort that can captivate and hold fast a crowd.”

Jaskier snorted.

“It helps,” Geralt added, “if they enjoy reading.”

“I no longer wonder at you knowing only six accomplished bards,” Jaskier replied, snapping his book shut. “In fact now I wonder at your knowing _any_.”

“One can’t blame a man for high standards,” Mousesack said. “It means all the more when someone with high standards chooses someone—you know how high in their esteem you reside.”

Geralt turned away and resumed his writing, effectively giving his friend the shoulder.

“But that,” Jaskier pointed out to the druid, ready and willing to defend the honor of bars everywhere, “is unfair to the many people who do not rise to such high ranks upon first meeting and yet would become perfectly valued with a bit of patience and forgiveness of spirit. To judge a person too harshly upon first meeting is to close one’s self off to many pleasing acquaintances and even partnerships.”

Geralt set his writing aside and turned towards Jaskier. “And what if there are faults that cannot be overcome? Defects that are too great to ignore?”

“You ought to be well acquainted with those,” Jaskier replied. “Given your own.”

“Oh? Name it.”

“Your defect is a propensity to hate everybody.”

“And yours is to willfully misunderstand them.”

“Oh, Lord, give me some music or I shall go mad,” Triss Merigold announced as she entered the room and collapsed upon the opposite end of the couch from Jaskier. “Mr. Pankratz, if you will not do me the deep favor of playing me a tune I shall be obliged to kick you out of the house.”

“Surely my sister’s company has not wearied you so deeply,” Jaskier teased. “And please, Miss Merigold, my stage name if you please. If I am never called by that horrid name of Pankratz again it shall be too soon.”

“Jaskier, then,” Miss Merigold amended. “And your sister is the picture of pleasantry. No, I refer only to my servants, who have had a row that I must mediate. Would you be so kind as to play for me?”

“Nothing would please me more.” Jaskier set his book aside and stood.

“I suppose you wish to play us one of those reels?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier laughed. “You want me, I know, to say ‘yes’ so that you could have the pleasure of despising my taste—but I always delight in overthrowing these kinds of schemes, and cheating a person of their premeditated contempt. I have therefore made up my mind to tell you that I do not want to play a reel at all—and now despise me if you dare.”

“I do not dare,” Geralt replied, to Jaskier’s surprise.

Refusing to let his astonishment show, Jaskier occupied himself with pulling out his lute. “Unless you would prefer I abuse your poor pianoforte,” he offered to his hostess.

“Not at all,” said she. “Play whatever pleases you.”

Jaskier played a few popular songs, including a few that were quite bawdy such as _Fishmonger’s Daughter_ in order to set Miss Merigold to laughing. Even Mousesack seemed amused and clapped along appropriately.

Geralt returned to writing his letters, and Jaskier, for his part, was relieved. He knew not what to make of the Witcher, not at all.

* * *

Geralt was aware that their little bubble must be broken at some point or another, and he found himself torn in two as he both dreaded and yearned for it. Too much time around the bard was dangerous, increasingly so, and yet he could not bring himself to flee. It was all that he could do to turn away and focus on his letters rather than staring at Jaskier like a simpleton.

It had been far too long since someone had been so petty and so cheerful with him, certainly never both at once. Everyone he knew feared him, even if it was just a little, and he could always smell it on them. They could lie behind their pretty, carefully-placed words and their poised expressions but they could not hide from a Witcher’s senses.

Jaskier, though.

Jaskier was not overly fond of him, and Geralt had a few suspicions as to why, but nor did Jaskier fear him. He baited Geralt and jabbed back against each thrust that Geralt threw his way, parrying and returning with an air of revelry. Geralt might as well have been any other man around Jaskier, neither fear nor frustrating deference given him.

It meant more to Geralt than he could articulate, and it was drawing him in most dangerously.

But the very next day, the end came.

Sabrina Pankratz was well enough to sit down with them for breakfast, although her appetite was smaller than everyone else’s. Triss made animated conversation with her and Geralt winced inwardly at Miss Pankratz’s calm, polite manner. Could his dear friend not see that her level of devotion was not matched by the other woman?

He feared deeply for Triss’ heart.

They had only just finished with sharing the morning paper—Miss Pankratz, Triss, Jaskier and himself, for Mousesack was called to aid with a neighbor’s garden problem—when a servant entered bearing a letter for Mr. and Miss Pankratz.

It was Miss Pankratz who took the letter from the servant. Geralt saw Jaskier’s eyes darken as he took in the handwriting on the front of the paper, and smelled the spike of anger, dry and hot like overcooked meat.

Miss Pankratz’s expression did not change. She read the letter in its entirety and then looked up to her brother. “Julian, Mother and Father are requesting that we return home to Lettenhove. It seems that Mother’s health has made her anxious to see us.”

Two spots of color appeared high up on Jaskier’s cheeks and he took the letter from his sister. Triss made soothing comments to Miss Pankratz, who responded with her usual restrained politeness. Geralt could not mark them. His eye was fixed on the bard, who paced towards the fireplace as he read the letter’s contents.

Whatever was inside made Jaskier practically vibrate. His fingers were in danger of tearing the paper.

In a masterwork of acting a moment later, Jaskier looked up with bright eyes and a casual smile, all affability. “Well, we must attend upon our mothers, must we not? After all the trouble they’ve gone through to raise us brats up in the world.”

He threw the letter aside, as if it meant nothing to him, and crossed back to Triss. “My dear Miss Merigold, to say you have been a genial hostess would be to both undermine and insult the care you’ve shown to my sister in this time. She could not have been better accommodated in her illness.”

Geralt, seeing himself unnoticed, bent down and picked up the letter.

_Julian and Sabrina,_

_If you are not too busy entertaining such stupid company at Netherfield, your mother would be appreciative if you would return to us. Sabrina, you cannot possibly be so ill that you must impose much longer and even if you were in such a state, we would prefer you at home so that our proper doctors might look at you, not one of Aretuza’s cheap conjurers._

_Julian, do not mistake me for a simpleton. If you are under the impression that I can be fooled into believing your only aim at staying in Netherfield so long is to care for Sabrina, then allow me to dispel such notions. I know Miss Merigold has a Witcher from Kaer Morhen staying with her at present. Do remember that I will be cold in my grave before I allow you to sully the family name by peddling mediocre songs across the shire. Especially in service to a brute._

_We expect better from both of you. Make your excuses and depart. I am, last I checked in with your mother, still your father and I will be obeyed._

The letter was unsigned, given that the sender was obvious.

Abruptly, Geralt realized that while Triss and Sabrina were still talking, albeit farther away towards the entry foyer, Jaskier had gone silent.

He looked up, and found that Jaskier had caught him.

Geralt silently held out the letter. Jaskier snatched it up, eyes aflame, and threw it into the fire.

“Did they not teach you at Kaer Morhen not to read the private correspondence of others?” Jaskier demanded, his voice cracking and sharp.

Geralt had no words in response. He usually didn’t.

“Julian?” Sabrina called from the foyer.

Jaskier, obviously humiliated, face pink, hurried from the room.

Fuck.

* * *

Yennefer found herself still deeply out of sorts for the next few days. Despite her highly entertaining time with the Aretuza students, the next morning she found that Istredd had departed for his post in Egypt without a word to her.

To leave so rapidly, and without even a letter! She felt the pain deeply. She had injured him, to be sure, but he now injured her in turn.

She needed something to distract her.

“Miss de Vries,” she ventured, when she and Tissaia were having their usual afternoon tea, “have you considered that the instruction here and there of a Witcher might be most valuable for the students?”

Tissaia fixed her with a look. “Yenna. Tell me, do you think me stupid?”

“Not at all. Overly stern, yes. Stupid? Never.”

“Then do not seek to fool me. If you wish for an excuse to see Geralt of Rivia all you have to do is call at Netherfield.”

“Where Triss will take up my time and give the man an excuse not to say two words to me? He has to be drawn out of his element, you know.”

“People are not toys, Yenna.”

“I am aware.”

“Then why do you treat them so?”

Yennefer tore a scone apart with her fingers, piece by tiny piece, scattering the crumbs across her plate. Her fingers itched to rub at her wrists. “Perhaps I am merely looking for my equal.”

Tissaia’s expression softened. “My—Yenna, I understand the allure. But you and the Witcher are too much alike. He is ice and you are fire, it is true, but both burn. I fear you would only be the waves and the rocks to one another, dashing together and succeeding in nothing.”

“He greatly admires me,” Yennefer said, her own voice softer than she wished it. “And he is a Witcher. He cannot be impressed by magic or power.”

“All men can be impressed by beauty.”

“His looks were given to him by magic, as were mine. Who else could understand such a thing?”

Tissaia’s teacup rattled against its saucer. “Do you… regret your choice?”

“Not in so many words. I feel that my face now matches my heart. But it was a… pain of a sort to learn that—that people judged me just as much for my beauty as they did for my ugliness.”

“You were never ugly, Yenna,” Tissaia murmured.

Yennefer glared at her. “Now who is fooling whom? Not even my mother loved my face. The face of the elf she foolishly bedded. Every day a reminder of her shame. Are you saying you would have taken me to bed?”

“Do not bait me, Yenna. You were a girl. I would not have wanted you had you been the greatest beauty in the land, _for your age_ ,” Tissaia emphasized. “And no other adult in their right mind would have disagreed with me.”

“I am not a girl now. I am five and twenty.”

“For God’s sake, Yenna, what do you wish for me to say?”

“I don’t know!” Yennefer confessed.

Her scone was in a state of complete obliteration on her plate, nothing more than mountains of crumbs.

“I want to be someone’s world,” she admitted. “But I also wish—to be seen.”

Tissaia’s fingers slid over the back of Yennefer’s hand. “D—Yenna. Such things are built, not found.”

Yennefer pulled her hand away and stood. “Thank you for tea, as always. I think I shall go for a ride.”

Her chest burned with the disappointed look in Tissaia’s eyes, and she knew that, in some way, she had failed her mentor once again.

That was the third thing she wanted, although she would never tell Tissaia. _I wish to make you proud._

After more than ten years, however, Yennefer was learning not to ask for that particular impossibility.

* * *

_Present Day_

Geralt swallowed. “Triss…”

“You know what such a gift suggests,” Triss said. “But if you wish to woo him then why the subterfuge? After all he has suffered, Geralt, he deserves to be courted properly, either as a bard or as a husband.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Geralt snapped. He felt raw, flayed, his heart held up into the light for all to see. “I am not wooing him.”

“Then why the gift.”

“I know of his troubles. I also know of his talent. He ought to be in front of the regent, Triss, not struggling in a backwater. I cannot partner with him, but I can help him. Any way that I can.”

“And so you sent him Eskel and Lambert, and you gift him with the finest lute money can purchase.”

“Anonymously. Triss, he cannot know. He will burn it in the fire.”

“Why? What transpired between you to make you hate one another so? I know that there was—a kind of animosity—but at times it also read as a—a—”

“Don’t.”

“A flirtation, Geralt, what, would you have me break our friendship and be dishonest with you now?”

“Hmm.”

Triss sighed and tilted her head. “Geralt. Please. You know your heart is safe with me. Have I ever betrayed a confidence? Have I ever spoken of a subject after our discussion of it had ended, if you did not wish it?”

Geralt stayed silent. His heart trembled.

“If I were to pick any person for you, as your husband or as your bard, it would be him.” Triss spoke carefully, as if Geralt were a horse she took care not to spook. “I think he does not despise you, as you fear.”

“You do not know the full of it, Triss.”

“Nor shall I, if you do not tell me.”

“I cannot.”

“Geralt.” Triss’ voice was soft, and on anyone else, the tone would have been one of pity. “How long have you been in love with him?”

Geralt strode over to his bedroom door and threw it open. “Get. Out.”

Triss stood there for a long moment, and then tipped her head. “I hope you will call upon Lettenhove soon. I wish for you to see the changes I have made to the rooms. New wallpaper and everything.”

She walked out, and while nothing in her words or tone were stern, Geralt knew it had been a rebuke all the same.

* * *

Jaskier scratched out a few lines on his paper. Hmm.

He picked up his lute—his beautiful, beloved new lute, for beloved it was no matter the sender, and so long as he did not know the sender he could pretend it was from whomever he wished—and strummed a few chords.

“…kings and queens have all knocked on his door…”

No, it ought to be more haunting than that. A minor key, perhaps?

He adjusted his fingers and tried again. “Kings and queens have all knocked on his door—”

A scream cut the air.

Jaskier leapt to his feet, carefully set the lute aside, and dashed for the door, his papers flying about like startled birds. It was a maid who had screamed, and when he reached the servants’ entrance he could see why.

Lambert sat astride his horse still, but just barely. Collapsed on the ground at the mare’s feet lay Eskel, his face a bloodied mess. Both men looked as though they had nearly been torn limb from limb.

“Sabrina!” Jaskier yelled. “Triss!”

He dashed to Eskel, who seemed to have it the worse of the two, and hauled him up. “Henry, George, take his feet—yes there, good—we’ll get him to Miss Sabrina’s old bedroom.”

Sabrina and Triss arrived and Triss went quite pale. “Lambert? Where is Eskel’s horse?”

“Gone,” Lambert grunted shortly. As his chest heaved on the breath, blood spurted out. Ah, shit, shit, shit.

“We must get them upstairs and heal them,” Sabrina said, ever calm. She clapped her hands, and both Witchers were raised into the air. Lambert’s eyes rolled back into his head and he promptly passed out.

Sabrina gestured, and the two unconscious men were floated up to the bedrooms. Jaskier watched, his stomach twisting harshly. “Triss. Are they—”

“I do not know,” Triss whispered. “I have not seen such injuries on a Witcher since the striga. I do not know.”

The striga. Geralt. Geralt!

Jaskier dashed through the house to the stables. These men were raised alongside Geralt as his family, as his brothers. He would want to know.

He rode as fast as he could, working the poor horse into a lather, until he reached Cintra. “Geralt!”

Calanthe stared at him as he shoved past the footman into the foyer. “Jaskier—”

“Geralt!”

The Witcher appeared in the doorway from the dining room. When he caught sight of Jaskier, his eyes became slits. “Jaskier. You’re injured.”

He looked down at himself. Ah, his outfit was quite stained with blood from Eskel, most unfortunate. He had not even noticed. He looked back up. “It is not mine. Eskel, Lambert—Lettenhove must have been the closest estate, the horse was carrying them both—”

Calanthe inhaled sharply as Geralt strode across the foyer. “We’ll take Roach. Can your horse carry you back?”

“I—I’m not certain, I rode him hard.”

“Calanthe, we’ll be borrowing one of yours.” Geralt walked past Jaskier and out the front door, giving Jaskier barely enough time to bow to Calanthe and follow.

It was all he could do to urge his horse to keep up with Roach as she tore across the fields. Roach was born and bred to be a battle horse, the mount of a Witcher, and Geralt had to do little to convince her to attempt to outstrip the wind. Barely had Roach come to a stop in front of the estate when Geralt was leaping off her.

Jaskier followed the Witcher as Geralt took the steps two at a time until he reached the guest room where his brothers had been placed.

Triss had already done good work, bandaging Eskel’s face, and now she worked patiently on the rest of him. Lambert lay still on his bed while Sabrina applied salve to his limbs. Both men had been stripped and Jaskier could now see that they were covered in bruises, and skin burns that seemed to be not from fire but from friction, rubbing. Many of the bruises were focused around the shoulders, the ankles, the wrists, and the ribcage.

It was as if—he was only guessing but still, it was his job as a bard to study up on creatures and injuries—and he would dare to say it was as if some sort of rope or other force had tried to rip the men apart, or crush them.

Perhaps both.

Triss looked up as Geralt entered. “Geralt. Please. You cannot—there is nothing to be done, please, Sabrina and I have it all in hand.”

“It was the leshen?” Geralt asked.

“It must have been,” Sabrina answered. She did not look up from her patient. “They are lucky to be alive, but Eskel’s scar was reopened by some blow. My greatest fear is for infection.”

Jaskier placed his hand on Geralt’s arm. He felt quite sick, even more so when he considered that this was the life he wanted, a life where one’s friend would be in constant danger, a life where a person for whom you cared might not always return home—but he knew it was only half of what Geralt must feel.

“Geralt. Please. Let the sorceresses do their work.”

For a moment, Geralt would not budge. And then, as though recognizing Jaskier’s touch upon him for the first time, he all but jumped back.

“I will get you something to drink,” Jaskier said, his voice low. He could not have said why. “Come. They will let us know when you can see them.”

Geralt’s jaw clenched, and he looked back towards his brothers—and then nodded shortly.

Jaskier led him down the steps. “Some whiskey, or perhaps I can even scrounge up some ale…”

“Don’t trouble yourself.”

In the time that it had taken Jaskier to fetch Geralt, the light had all but faded. The servants, distracted by the two dying men in their home, now scrambled to light the candles about the house, and so it left Jaskier and Geralt in near-darkness when they reached the base of the main staircase.

Jaskier paused, his hand still on the railing. “Geralt. I know what thoughts are running through—”

“Don’t.”

“You blame yourself, because you were not there.”

Geralt was silent.

Jaskier gripped the banister. “Geralt. It was not your contract. Your duty is to Ciri. Eskel and Lambert—”

“Do not have my mutations, Jaskier!” Geralt whipped around, his eyes glowing gold, his canines prominent. “If I had been there—”

“I know what they mean to you. I know that is your fear.” Jaskier took a few trembling steps closer. “But Eskel and Lambert are trained Witchers. They are strong, capable, they knew what they were doing—”

“I allowed myself to be distracted—”

“They are not Renfri,” Jaskier whispered.

Geralt snapped his mouth shut.

“Do not discredit them, Geralt, and do not punish yourself. The universe, destiny, is not here only to fuck with you.”

Geralt’s chest heaved and he looked away. “They are family. I cannot—”

“You will not lose them. Triss and Sabrina know what they are about.”

Geralt looked back at him. “And you still wish for this life?”

Jaskier nodded. “Yes.”

Geralt looked at him and Jaskier found he couldn’t draw breath. “Geralt…”

_I wish for you._

He could not say such a thing, not when Geralt was in such frantic distress. He could not make it about himself, even if he deserved a second chance, which he did not.

Geralt’s hand, Jaskier realized, gripped the banister as well. It would be the thing of a moment to slid his own hand down and cover Geralt’s, offer comfort—

The front doors opened and a figure stepped in. “Jaskier?”

He jerked his head around in shock, staring at the confused blonde.

Essi Daven was in his foyer.


	11. Chapter 11

_One Year and Nine Months Ago_

Jaskier was not, unfortunately, surprised in the least to be summoned home by Father as if he was a disobedient pet. He was actually gratified that it had taken so long. Miss Merigold and Sabrina had been a joy to observe. Miss Merigold would read to Sabrina as her sister lay in bed, her eyes warm with something quite other than fever, and they spoke to one another with the perfect ease and amiability of two persons who had known one another for years rather than only a month or two.

Leaving Netherfield, with its warm and welcoming owner, and returning home to Lettenhove was like slipping right from the middle of spring into the depths of winter, bypassing both summer and autumn in the process to give an extra sensation of being left bereft.

Jaskier had not realized how wrapped up he was in Netherfield’s affairs, how cut off he had been from the rest of the county, until he was obliged to go into Meryton to discuss Mother’s condition with the local doctor.

That was the one thing about which Father did not have to lie or exaggerate. Mother’s health was truly taking a turn for the worst. Jaskier knew the cause, the damage she had done to herself with years of excessive drinking, but it would not aid him or the rest of the family to be so blunt to Father. They all knew the truth and simply tiptoed around it.

It was the same way they had tiptoed around Father and Mother’s exceeding their income for years, and the mismanagement and neglect of the estate, and their self-importance, and all else. Jaskier had quickly learned to become an expert in avoidance, which perhaps was why he despised it so and preferred outrageous honesty and bare sensibility. Sabrina had moved in the opposite quarter, keeping herself on a tight leash at all occasions so that no weakness could be detected, good common-sense reigning over her.

While he was in town, Jaskier heard the rumors.

Rumors about Geralt.

It appeared that while he was engaged with his sister at Netherfield, the news about Geralt’s unfair treatment of Valdo Marx, and Geralt’s subsequent refusal to ever have a bard, had become common knowledge. Many who had been rebuffed by the Witcher’s brusque and taciturn nature felt themselves justified, and few had waited long before spreading the news to another so that they might have facts to back up their instinctive dislike.

Well, at least Jaskier was no longer alone in openly disliking the man. He was rather puzzled as to how the news had become so far spread, for surely few knew of the tale, everything occurring before Geralt came to Cintra for the first time. The only person he could guess might know something of the matter would be Miss Merigold herself, but she would never spread such information. She had far too caring of a heart.

Geralt himself was not present to dispute such claims or offer up any opinion in his defense. The morning that Jaskier and Sabrina had departed Netherfield, Geralt had found a hunt a little ways north in the W— Shire, for which he left at once.

Jaskier could not help but wonder if there was a bit of shame attached to Geralt’s departure, for it was sudden and despite his embarrassment, nay, humiliation, and dislike of the man, he could not forget the look on Geralt’s face when Jaskier had thrown Father’s letter into the fire.

The last thing Jaskier ever wanted to see in that man’s eyes towards him was pity, but Geralt had not seemed to have that in him. Instead, Jaskier had seen—

He could not say what it was he thought he had seen.

His puzzlement was quickly pushed from his mind as he dealt with Mother’s health and the affairs that must follow. The doctor, able to be honest with Jaskier in a way he could not with Mr. Pankratz, was able to inform the bard that his mother’s death was now a question of when.

Jaskier busied himself with preparations accordingly, even if Father would rail against them.

Sabrina, poor girl, could find little comfort, for it was quite out of the question that she renew her acquaintance with Triss Merigold for the time being. Jaskier, however, was able to sneak away to see Mr. Marx on a few occasions, and found the man as charming and diverting as he had been previously.

“A whole month with Geralt of Rivia, however did you survive?” he teased.

“What can I say? I am not as easy to wilt as some might think.”

Sabrina seemed to be of the mind that Jaskier was in danger, but Jaskier could read his own heart and perceive no true deep attachment. Marx was the sort of man he wished to be himself, free and careless and respected for his art. He was not the sort of man with whom Jaskier could fall in love. Nevertheless, flirtations were welcomed, for they were enjoyable and Jaskier could admit to himself that he possessed an easily-flattered personality. If Sabrina wanted to judge, she was welcome to do so as soon as she ceased to stare longingly across the green towards Netherfield.

* * *

_Present Day_

“Essi?” Jaskier blurted out.

Geralt turned to take stock of the young woman in the doorway. She was quite a young thing, nineteen or so, and had a lute strapped to her back. Perhaps a recent graduate of Oxford, then? Nineteen or twenty was usually when they performed their dissertations and received their license and diploma.

The girl did appear to be Jaskier’s type. Or indeed anyone’s type. She had pale ash blonde hair in long ringlets that fell so that only one of her bright blue eyes could be seen. She was of a small stature, emphasized when Jaskier broke into a delighted and surprised grin and dashed to her to lift her off her feet, giving her a spin.

The girl, Essi, laughed delightedly. “Surprise! I hoped to arrive earlier but there was such a storm, one would think the forest had come alive and was angered!”

Geralt had an answer as to why that was, and his heart twisted yet again. Eskel and Lambert, clinging to life. Anger was not a powerful enough emotion for how he felt.

They said in the olden days that Witchers could not feel, and it was true that they did not experience emotions as others did. The mutations changed and warped all of that. But there was no magic or training in the world that could take from him the ability to experience anguish when his brothers lay in bed fighting for their lives.

Jaskier set the girl down. “What brings you to my terrible neck of the woods, my dear poppet? Surely you have much better things to be doing, crowds to be enchanting.”

“I…” Essi bit her lip. “I had need to… have a change of pace.”

Jaskier pressed his lips together and eyed her shrewdly. “Well. We shall speak no more on the matter for now, as I have said before, Lettenhove is always open to you. Geralt!”

He turned and presented Essi to the Witcher with a smile. “This is Essi Daven. Her elder sister and I were students together at Oxenfurt. Essi is the most talented poet I have had the misfortune of encountering, one day she will write a line that sends me into fits and I shall die of pure envy that I did not pen it myself.”

Essi—Miss Daven—blushed. “I am not so good as all that.”

“Poppet, this is Geralt of Rivia. He is a—” Jaskier’s voice underwent an odd strain. “My dear sister-in-law and he are longstanding friends. Perhaps he can introduce you to a Witcher and you can at last destroy every other bard’s career.”

Geralt bowed politely and Miss Daven curtsied. “Jaskier, please, enough.” She was blushing mightily. “Unless I can obtain a license and a diploma from Oxenfurt there will be no barding for me.”

Geralt sensed this was a private conversation. “Jaskier.” He jerked his head towards the door that led to the servant’s quarters and, downstairs, the kitchen.

Jaskier waved his hand. “Anything in the kitchen is yours, Geralt, please.”

Geralt made his way out of the foyer—but his Witcher senses could not help him overhearing the rest of the conversation.

“I thought Ellen was to assist you in making introductions at Oxenfurt? I presumed that was where you had been all this time.”

“You know my family cannot afford—”

“There are scholarships—”

“It was not possible—”

The voices lowered even beyond his hearing, and then Essi’s voice rose in pitch as Jaskier mentioned Ellen yet again and Essi cried out, “She’s _dead_.”

Geralt froze in spite of himself.

The soft, unmistakable noise of crying followed. “I had to get away. I had to go somewhere else. I could not stand to be anywhere she had been.”

If Ellen Daven had been Jaskier’s classmate, then she had most likely been a bard for some years. Geralt did not know for certain, but he could guess at the reason for her death. Bards accompanied Witchers, and witchering was a dangerous profession.

He went down into the kitchen, so as not to overhear any more.

When he returned, it was to find Jaskier alone in the library, head bowed over his new lute.

Geralt’s heart clenched. He knew it was not his right, he knew that was not the reason why he had gifted the lute to Jaskier—but he could not help the possessive, warm curl in his stomach, seeing the bard use his gift.

Jaskier looked up at Geralt entered. “I have put Miss Daven up in one of our guest rooms. I apologize, the house seems to be filled with unexpected guests this evening.”

“Is she all right?”

Jaskier set the lute aside, and Geralt took note of the care the bard had with the instrument. “Ah. Her sister, as I mentioned, was a classmate of mine. She did not come from a family of great means, and there was much hope that the fame of their sister would in time secure better fortune for them all, including an advantageous match for Essi. Not to speak ill of the dead, for Ellen was a magnetic woman, but—Essi was, is, the greater talent. If not the more natural performer. Much was sacrificed so that Ellen might attend Oxenfurt.”

“And now she is gone, and their hopes are dashed.”

Jaskier swallowed. “Mrs. Daven had passed some years before. Mr. Daven shortly before Ellen herself—Essi is alone in the world, now. And too old, according to most, to attend Oxenfurt.”

Geralt knew that Jaskier, above all others, could understand Essi’s plight the idea that one was too old to become successful at the thing that one loved.

“I shall write to Oxenfurt and see what can be done, but as a bard with no career myself, I am not certain how much weight my word will hold.” Jaskier offered up a pained smile. “But if nothing else, I shall attempt to offer her comfort.”

“Surely with respect to her skills—”

“Respect?” Jaskier gave a bitter laugh. “Respect does not win people’s hearts, Geralt.”

Geralt noted that Jaskier’s hands were curled into fists at his side. “If she could afford to attend Oxenfurt, would other issues of her age and lack of family name be set aside?”

“Most likely, yes. Money greases palms everywhere.” Jaskier’s tongue slid across his bottom lip, a common sign he was deep in thought. “Would that I could spare her something, but Sabrina has only just gotten the estate in order. We have enough to care for ourselves but not yet enough to be charitable to others. And I know of no one from whom I could dare to borrow. Essi would murder me if she knew I went into debt for her sake.”

“Are you… was she…” Geralt’s tongue felt clumsy in his mouth and he made a half-hearted, vague gesture with his hand.

Jaskier laughed. “Oh, think you the wind sits in that corner? No. No, and with a tip of the hat to irony, Essi is one of the few women I’ve never considered—Ellen and I, a few times, I was quite the wild thing at Oxenfurt. But Essi was always Ellen’s younger sister, and that fixed her in my mind as a younger sister for myself.” Jaskier paused. “She is a dear girl. A talented girl. She deserved better from the world.”

 _So did you._ Geralt had never met a bard more talented than Jaskier, and yet his parents had kept him from the work, the joy, the acclaim that was his due. But he doubted such words would comfort Jaskier now. They would be out of place and unwelcome.

“My sisters will have finished with Eskel and Lambert by now,” Jaskier added, his voice hushed. “You can go and see them.”

Geralt nearly asked Jaskier to come with him, unwilling to leave the bard’s side when the man was in such clear distress, but he knew not how that would help. Instead he nodded and went to check on his brothers. That, at least, was somewhere he could be of use.

* * *

Yennefer winced as she heard the approaching footsteps and knew who would momentarily be entering her drawing room. She lay on her couch, a cold compress on her forehead, and idly wondered if she ought to have simply portaled to the edge of the world so that she did not have to deal with any of this outstanding nonsense.

Tissaia entered, no doubt looking every inch the leader of England’s most esteemed school of magic. “Yenna. What am I reading in this letter from Mr. Tuirseach?”

Yennefer declined to open her eyes and kept them firmly shut. “I thought you told me not to be impertinent by answering rhetorical questions.”

Tissaia made a noise in the back of her throat. “Angering Calanthe Rhiannon is no way to go about mending our broken bridges.”

“I did not mean to anger her!” Yennefer sat up, the cold compress sliding off her and onto the floor. “I feel for the girl, and I only wished to help!”

“You have a fine way of stating that.”

“It is not my fault that the woman was utterly bullheaded.” Yennefer stood and began to pace. “She could beat even you for stubbornness, Miss de Vries. Her prejudice and defiance—”

“She was a mother of a girl with magic when a man was murdering such girls,” Tissaia said quietly, evenly. “And we did not do all that we should have to stop him in time. Such fear is not easily dismissed.”

“Because motherhood is so sacred, so profound, I could not possibly seek to understand it unless I bore a child myself, because I am incapable of feeling such selfless and all-encompassing love since my uterus is useless!” Yennefer’s voice rose to a fever pitch. “Because I am still broken in the eyes of society only in a different way—!”

Faster than a viper, Tissaia seized her by the wrists. “Never allow me to hear you say that again.” Her dark eyes blazed. “You are not broken, Yennefer of Vengerberg. You were not broken as a child, and you are not broken now. You are a force of nature.”

“Your lightning storm?” Yennefer aimed for a joke and found her voice to be too choked to carry it off.

“Yes.” Tissaia’s voice was soft. It was unbearable.

Yennefer’s knees gave out and Tissaia was obliged to catch her, Yennefer’s nails digging into Tissaa’s arms as her head bowed, the weight of it all weighing on her. “I want to _matter_ to someone. I thought—if I was powerful—I should not care if I did not matter to anyone, and then I was unable to even simply give birth to a child and have someone who had no choice but to love me, and I thought perhaps Geralt—but he placed me on a pedestal, I was no more than a substitute for him and—I only wish to matter.”

Tissaia guided her back onto the couch and returned the cold compress to her forehead. “Yenna. Would you say that I have no children? After I have guided and raised dozens of them here at Aretuza? I am more mother to them than most of their biological parents. I guide and guard them, and I love them as much as if they had come from me. I know that I am not always gentle in my methods. I know that not all of them view me with kindness. But enough do to fill my heart. If you wish to be a mother then the path is not closed to you.”

“The Rhiannon child reminds me of myself, when I first came to Aretuza.” Yennefer’s mouth twisted. “Do you recall?”

“I could never forget. You were the greatest trial I have ever encountered.” Tissaia passed her hand over Yennefer’s hair. “You were so stubborn, you would not access your magic. But when you did… it was beautiful.”

“It was days before graduation.”

“It is not how you begin, Yenna, it is how you finish. I know you wish to help the girl but we must go about this delicately. There is the matter of Geralt of Rivia, as well. We must consider him and Kaer Morhen.” Tissaia waved her hand and Yennefer found her headache had vanished. “You cannot affix all your hopes onto a single person. That is not how we find fulfilment.”

She paused. “Sometimes, in being given everything easily, things lose their value. People lose their value.”

“You never can resist the teaching moment, can you?”

“Old habits are hard to break, although you have not been my student in some years. And I do not wish to treat you as one. I only… wish to help you.”

Yennefer sat up again. “You have never lost your value to me. I know that you are disappointed in me, often, but you must understand yours is the only opinion I have ever consistently held in high esteem.”

She and Tissaia were not often so frank with their hearts in this manner, and so she closed out with a touch of lightheartedness, “Indeed, my esteem for you is such that I refused Sabrina Pankratz’s dare that I seduce you in our senior year.”

Tissaia stood instantly. “What sort of dares were you two engaging in?”

“Oh, the usual nonsense. Miss de Vries, do not upset yourself, it is nearly ten years ago now and none of us are the worse for our foolishness. I refused her, naturally, and insisted she choose another person.”

“How did this even come about? Am I so disrespected by my students that they think I could be swayed by the wiles of a girl of eighteen?” Tissaia looked as though the ground beneath her had turned to water.

“I confess it was my fault, as I boasted that I could convince anyone into my bed. Sabrina meant to spite me, of course, and I dare say she had a right to, bragging as I was, an awkward hunchback, but I replied that if I should try such a thing it might be viewed as an attempt to gain your favor and ensure my graduation, and I declared I would not risk any dishonor being thrown upon my scores.”

“Yenna,” Tissaia announced, “You test me beyond all endurance.”

She swept out of the room and Yennefer stared after her. “Are you saying you _wished_ for a humpbacked teenager to seduce you?”

The powerful slamming of the front door was her only answer.

* * *

_One Year and Eight Months Ago_

If he had thought the hunt would take Jaskier from his mind, he had been deeply mistaken.

Almost without thought, once his contract was complete, Geralt turned Roach’s hooves towards Cintra, towards Lettenhove.

The man for whom he had been doing the hunt had been most grateful for Geralt’s assistance, although Geralt was not overly fond of the entire affair. There were monsters, and there were creatures, misunderstood and afraid and only hoping to live their lives in peace, and he did not appreciate when humans insisted on seeing the latter as the former.

Vesemir had often told him there were only so many ways he could hope to change the world, and Geralt tried to remember that, even as he always also tried to look for a better solution.

One would have thought that previous circumstances would have taught him that sometimes, there was no such thing as a better path, that sometimes there was only the lesser evil after all—and yet here he was, a bittersweet taste on his tongue, trying to save a mermaid and the stupid duke who didn’t deserve her.

In his saddlebag was hidden the blue pearl that had caused this entire mess. Perhaps someday he would find a better use for it, one that would remove the stain of heartbreak and blood.

When he returned to visit Netherfield and the other estates, his first thought was for sleep, but his second was, unfortunately, for Jaskier. The bard would enjoy the tale, he could not help but think. He would turn it into something altogether much more romantic, something with a happy ending. Geralt did not know how to feel about that.

Upon reaching Netherfield, however, it was to find Triss in a state.

“Were you aware that Valdo Marx is in town?” she queried him the moment he dismounted.

He had forgotten about the man since Jaskier’s biting comment at Yennefer’s ball. “Is he still about?”

“Still about, and telling people of how you abandoned him and nearly destroyed his career,” Triss hissed at him. Triss Merigold rarely hissed. “Geralt, your reputation—”

“Has weathered far worse.” He noted the bags under her eyes. “Have you been sleeping?”

Triss waved her hand away. “It is nothing. I have only—the expectation of certain—letters and calls has not—it is no matter. Do not trouble yourself. You must set right these heinous rumors.”

“I cannot.”

To set this to rights would be to betray himself and someone he loved. He would not drag her secrets out into the light, not after all she had endured, not after the parties most intimately involved were all dead and gone. And for Vesemir to find out—well. Geralt would be hauled back to Kaer Morhen and his hide tanned for his own behavior and the bloodshed he had enabled.

“You had better. Calanthe has been raging about you.”

“Calanthe rages about everyone. She is no friend of magic and we cannot expect her to be.” Geralt stripped off his gloves. “Triss. Why aren’t you sleeping.”

Triss looked away.

“It’s Miss Pankratz, isn’t it. She hasn’t written you or called on you.”

“Geralt please, it’s—”

“When are you going to listen to me?” Geralt began to take care of Roach. “She does not love you, Triss. She is an accomplished woman but your affection for her outweighs hers for yours.”

“Please, do be blunter about it, your subtlety is appreciated but far too gentle.”

“Damn it, Triss, what would you have me say? I’m trying to protect you from getting hurt!”

Triss wiped at her eyes and offered up a watery smile. “I’m afraid it’s a bit late for that.”

Geralt rarely touched anyone besides Ciri. He was not one easily given to physical affection, even if propriety had not dictated that such touches were often to be avoided for the sake of reputation. But he drew Triss to him now and held her close, let her wet the shoulder of his armor.

“London is… nice… this time of year. Perhaps you should visit your old school friends there.”

“You hate London. All of the people.”

“Well I never said I would be going to London with you.”

Triss laughed wetly. Geralt gave her a fond squeeze. “Do not continue to try and open a door that has been closed.”

Triss nodded. “Our lives would be much easier if we could simply fall in love with one another.”

“If only.”

Triss laughed at his dry tone, and Geralt only wished he could take her troubles away completely.

* * *

Yennefer was quite shocked to journey to Netherfield only to find its mistress not at home. “Not at home? But where has she gone off to, then?”

“London, miss,” the maid informed her. “And she will not be returning for some time, I hear. I believe she will allow the lease on the place to run out, if I’m not mistaken.”

Yennefer spied the hulking shadow of Geralt of Rivia at the far end of the foyer. “Geralt!”

She pushed past the maid and strode up to him. “What is this? Netherfield is to be closed up? Triss has dispatched herself to London? Is all well?”

Triss was heartbroken over Istredd, she was sure of it. Yennefer felt such a combination of things she knew not how to handle them all. Numbness, and sadness, and frustration—and above all anger, at herself for her own follies.

Geralt seemed to be in a fine sort of despair himself, the lines on his face pronounced and his jaw set. Perhaps it was over the rumors Yennefer had heard? She paid no mind to such things and she had thought that someone such as Geralt would not either, but perhaps he was more affected by public opinion than she had guessed.

“She needed a change of scenery.”

“You seem to be in need of something as well,” Yennefer noted.

“Hmm.”

She stared at him for a moment more. Tissaia had said he would not be good for her, but Tissaia could not always be right. She had made her own mistakes in her time, of that Yennefer was well aware. And she was angry, and hurt, and Geralt seemed much the same.

“Is the house truly empty?” she asked, her tone weighted.

Geralt looked at her for a long moment, at first in apparent confusion, then in understanding.

She had been right: he could pick her up with one arm.

* * *

_Present Day_

With her beloved wife and Geralt of Rivia keeping watch over their two wounded guests and Julian occupied plying Miss Daven with a duet to lighten her mood, Sabrina at last found herself alone.

She made her way slowly down the stairs. The leshen had strong magic of its own and she had little doubt why in days of old people had foolishly worshipped them as forest gods. Occasionally she was obliged to pause and grip the banister, lean on it as a crutch, as a wave of exhaustion or headache assaulted her.

All magic had a price.

It was quite late, the candles burnt low, and as soon as she finished her daily duties she could go to sleep. Triss would wake her in a few hours so that Sabrina might take her turn on watch for the Witchers.

Would either of them be good enough for her brother? Sabrina did not know, but their work against the leshen today put doubt into her mind. She was biased, she knew, and inclined to think that no one could be equal to Julian, but surely none could begrudge her some high standards.

A footfall sounded behind her and Sabrina drew herself up.

Geralt of Rivia stopped beside her. “Mrs. Pankratz.”

“Do your brothers have need of anything?”

“No.” Geralt paused. “As Jaskier has no doubt informed you, there is a Miss Daven staying with you for the time being.”

“Yes.” Sabrina had not a clue where this line of conversation was headed. “I have never before had the pleasure but I once met her elder sister. It is a pity, what happened.”

“Hmm.” Geralt reached into a pocket of his armor and produced a luminous blue pearl, of such a size and luster that had Sabrina’s breath catching. “I earned this on a hunt a bit ago. I’ve kept it on me. I didn’t know what to do with it. I wanted to find a good use for it. Something…”

The Witcher seemed to struggle for words, and then at last held the pearl out to her. “Please use this to buy Miss Daven’s admission into Oxenfurt.”

Sabrina did not take the pearl. “I had not understood you to be a man who would sacrifice so much for a girl with whom he had only just now stuck up an acquaintance.”

“Hmm.”

“Besides, her admission into Oxenfurt now would only be part of the entire parcel. Her age will play against her in the beginnings of her career and securing a partnership with a Witcher.”

Just as age played against Julian now. Sabrina would never forgive her parents for that. She hoped they rotted.

“I know.” Geralt offered up nothing more.

Sabrina eyed him. “You ought to give this gift to Miss Daven directly. Or to Julian.”

“I cannot. But you can apply to Oxenfurt with this as your funds, with your family name.” Geralt held the pearl out to her once again. “If you do not—you can at least give it to her and let her choose what to do with it.”

“I might ask again what moves you to do so much for a girl you do not know.” She took the pearl from him.

Geralt only bowed. “I must check on my brothers.”

He went back up the stairs and Sabrina stared after him, the pearl a heavy and unsure weight in her palm.

* * *

Jaskier flipped through the small booklet. “These poems are beautiful, Poppet.”

Essi blushed. “You were always too flattering to me.”

“No, Essi, I mean every word I say.” He waved the booklet in the air. “This is true art. I would give my left hand to be able to write such things.”

“I was… inspired.” Essi ran her fingers through her hair.

Ah. “It helps, when grieving—when in the grip of any strong emotion—to write of it. It helps to work it through you.”

“Sometimes I don’t wish to work it through me. I want to hang on to it. It’s all of her I have left.”

Jaskier drew her to him and kissed the top of her head. “I know, I know. And I know it will not help my saying that Ellen would not wish you to grieve so. But my house is yours, for as long as you need it, and I will give you whatever of my stupid diversions and jokes as you need.”

A soft knock sounded on the door. “Julian?”

Jaskier guided Essi to sit on the bed and exited to join his sister in the hall. “Yes?”

Sabrina held out her hand and Jaskier nearly choked. Resting in her palm was a large pearl with a rare and beautiful blue sheen to it. “Where the fuck did you get that?”

“It was gifted to me. To pay for Essi’s studies at Oxenfurt.” Sabrina pressed the pearl into his hand.

“From whom?”

“Geralt.”

Jaskier’s heart burned. “Geralt… wishes to fund Essi’s education?”

“I was as surprised as you are. He offered up no explanation.”

How did Geralt even come by such a pearl? And why—unless—

Essi was rather fair of face, and sweet of manner. And Jaskier had assured Geralt of her talents. Perhaps Geralt was at last softening and wished to take on a bard.

He was sure that any bard other than himself would do.

“I will show this to Essi and see if she will accept it,” he said. “We cannot act for her, not when fate has stolen so much from her already. We shall see what her choice is.”

Sabrina nodded. “That was my line of thinking.” She paused. “I had not thought Geralt of Rivia so influenced by compassion.”

“He hides much of what he feels,” Jaskier replied, rolling the pearl around in his palm. “Rather like you, my dear sister.”

He slipped back into the room, his entire body weighed down. There was nothing more he could ask for to assure him of Geralt’s personal indifference towards him. Geralt was moving on, and making his intentions obvious. He had learned from his last attempt to woo a bard—or woo a partner. There would be no guessing games now.

Well. At least, out of all the bards in the world Geralt could have chosen, Essi Daven would deserve him.


	12. Chapter 12

_One Year and Eight Months Ago_

There was a voice in his head that sounded very much like Vesemir, reminding him that the last time he’d fallen into bed with a powerful woman with spiked words and walls, it had ended in nothing but disaster for them both.

Geralt ignored that voice.

While he had done a passable job of behaving towards Triss as though Marx’s behavior did not concern him—aided, he knew, but Triss’ distracted and broken heart—Geralt could not ignore the black, bitter anger that seeped through him at the remembrance of the man and the knowledge that he was sullying Geralt’s name.

It was not so much Geralt’s own reputation that he cared for—he had weathered worse. It was that to do so, Marx was lying about another matter, a matter very close to Geralt’s heart, and one he knew that Marx was fully aware cut him deeply. It was tangentially continuing to sully and disrespect the memory of someone else, someone for whom Geralt had cared, someone who did not deserve slander, and that he could not ignore or forgive.

And then there was the matter of the Pankratz family. Geralt was angry at himself, for indulging such folly as reading the letter. What had he expected, that Jaskier would not notice? He had undoubtedly sealed his bad standing in the eyes of the bard forever. And then Sabrina, and how she had injured his friend—and the matter of their horrid parents—no, Geralt could not forgive the actions of any of the three, even as he could not banish Jaskier’s bright eyes from his mind, and he hated himself for his weakness.

It all combined to create such a hurricane in his heart that he was bound to take Yennefer up on her offer. Her words had been brief, and neutral, but her eyes and tone had spoken a different story.

Geralt had been called an idiot by others and by himself many a time, but even he could not misread the sorceress’ intent.

Triss would forgive him for sullying one of her guest bedrooms.

Yennefer smelled of lilac and gooseberries, her eyes were violet, and she used magic as she pleased. Little sparks appeared like tiny thunderbolts between her fingers when she shuddered for the last time against his lips. She needed no one, she wanted no one. She did not need him. He could not disappoint her. She was power itself. He could not fail in protecting her.

There were no stakes, so there was nothing to be gained, but also nothing to be lost.

And Geralt was tired of loss.

Yennefer magicked herself afterwards, instantly transforming from disheveled to her usual poised self, not a hair out of place. There was something sad in that, Geralt could not help but feel. It was as though Yennefer were eager to not only erase what had transpired between them but also any momentary flaws that had appeared as a result of vigorous exercise.

Perhaps it was that he had bedded her in a state of anger, a state of insult, but he felt hollower after they finished than when they had begun.

“If you wish to call upon me,” Yennefer noted, double-checking her appearance in the mirror set over the vanity, “I would not be opposed.”

“I won’t be around.”

“Oh?”

Geralt supposed that he might as well compose himself as well, and began to reassemble his armor. “A man of repute has reached out to me for assistance in the north. I suppose you heard of the dragon hunt.”

“Yes. Are you going, then?”

Yes, although not to hunt the dragon, but Geralt would not share such a fact. If news were to get back of his plan to help Mr. Jackdaw, the entire hunt would be in disarray and their plan would most likely fall to ruin.

Geralt nodded. It would be best to get away from the area for a time. Away from Mr. Marx and his influence, away from Cintra, away from Jaskier.

“I might have a mind to join you. I am forever in search of something new and I have yet to see a dragon.” Yennefer dabbed perfume on her wrists, the cut-glass bottle secured in a hidden pocket.

Geralt could not see them, but when he had run his thumb across her inner wrists, he had felt the thin ridges of crisscrossing scars across the skin. He did not ask after them.

“Hmm.” Yennefer could come if she wished. It might be a fine idea. He would not force her, however. She had duties here as well.

“I believe it is your witty conversation that so draws me to you,” Yennefer noted.

“Just as you draw people with your sweet and unassuming nature,” Geralt replied.

Yennefer shot him an arch look over her shoulder. He felt as though Yennefer were gazing down at him from atop a throne, and was oddly comfortable with it. He could not reach her. His hands would not smear her with pitch.

Geralt took up his swords last, and strapped them to his back. His thumb skittered over Renfri’s broach on the hilt of the silver one— _silver is for monsters_.

“You can come, if you want.”

“I shall consider it.” Yennefer offered up a small smile, a generous favor Geralt knew she did not gift to all.

This was good, Geralt told himself. This was more in line with how it should be.

His chest still felt hollow.

* * *

Jaskier plied Sabrina with amusing ditties, with treats and with long walks, but nothing could persuade her to lift her spirits.

Oh, to be sure, most others would look at her and see Sabrina Pankratz at her usual. But when word reached them of Triss Merigold’s sudden departure from Netherfield and the closing up of the estate, Jaskier had seen the glitter in his sister’s eyes and noted her loss of appetite.

“I cannot go on a walk, Julian,” Sabrina would tell him. “There is work to be done.”

As if Father was not the one supposed to be doing the work, as if Mother could not be attended to by the doctor, as if it was not all an excuse for Sabrina to not think of what—who—she had lost.

Some outside force had persuaded Triss to quit the county. It had to be. Was it Lady Yennefer? Jaskier was sure he could count upon her meddlesome ways. But why would that be? Istredd had gone to Egypt and Triss Merigold would not follow after, surely.

Lady Yennefer herself was not around to be asked after, for she had gone with Geralt of Rivia on some sort of wild hunt up in the north. Jaskier did not think the two of them a suited pair. They were too alike, in his mind, both prickly and taciturn unless delivering a witty blow, both quick to judge and self-contained. He could not say he knew Yennefer well enough to subscribe a match to her but Geralt, he reasoned, would need someone of opposing temperament, to make light of him so that he would not take himself so seriously.

Not that Jaskier truly cared. But it was a diverting line of thought.

He was in great need of diversion. Sabrina was sunk into her work and her heartbreak, and Mr. Marx had quit the area shortly after Geralt’s departure so there was no one about besides Pavetta and Duny to provide him with entertainment.

Jaskier wrote a few new lullabies for little Ciri, which Pavetta quite adored. Cirilla was a charming child, but already far too mischievous. Jaskier encouraged such behavior shamelessly.

“How does she get on?” he asked one afternoon. It was a fine day and he and the little family were taking advantage of it by having a picnic on the Cintra grounds. Calanthe could then glare at him disapprovingly from her study.

Calanthe did not like his music. Jaskier thought it highly amusing.

“Cirilla?” Pavetta watched her daughter play with her husband, the two of them using sticks to pretend to be knights. “Quite well. Why shouldn’t she?”

“Only with the departure of Geralt of Rivia. They are bound by destiny.”

“Yes.” A shadow passed over Pavetta’s face. “But he is not her parent. I do not mean to discredit him. I recall when he first held her as a baby, he looked alarmed. I have seen the poor man handle the heads of griffons with more ease. One would think the child was some sort of magical powder keg set to go off. But he has done his duty by her, more than he had to, and I know that he loves her. But he is not her father, nor her mother. She misses him when he is gone and I do… I do fear the consequences if he were to be hurt, I do not know if—if it would hurt Cirilla in her turn. But she is well.”

“I am glad to hear it. The man has his faults but his devotion to Ciri is not one that can be laughed at.”

“My estimation of him has grown over time. I thought him nothing more than an unpleasant monster hunter upon first acquaintance.” Pavetta smiled adoringly at her husband. “But he stood between Duny and all others. He saved the life of the person I love most, and he urged Mother to consider our elopement to be valid. To recognize our union and our choice. He is a most loyal friend.”

“I had not thought he had many of them.”

“He has more than he would care to admit. There is something in him that dreads the admission of softness. I do not understand it. Perhaps it is a Witcher oddity. But there are none who know him who have a bad turn to say of him. Most recently, for example, he acted to save a close friend from an unfortunate match in marriage.”

Jaskier’s breath went cold in his throat. “Oh? Do you know the details? I had not thought a Witcher to be in the business of matchmaking—or match-undoing, as the case may be.”

“I know little, only that there was some concern for the lady’s family. Her parents were… improper and uncouth. It was feared that a marriage would only lead to greater unhappiness than a breaking off of the acquaintance.”

It was all that Jaskier could do to remain composed. Geralt was the reason his sister was in despair! Geralt had come between her and Triss Merigold!

He tightly gripped the grass on which he sat and forced himself to maintain an air of cheer and calm. Pavetta must not know of Jaskier’s anger, for to know of that would be not only to place her in an unfortunate position with her other friend, but it would make Sabrina’s heartbreak known—and that indignity Sabrina would not stand.

“It seems that Geralt thinks himself an excellent judge of character,” he noted instead.

“He is,” Pavetta said faithfully. “I only wish he would not question himself so much. I believe he made a poor call of judgment in his youth and has had great cause to regret it.”

Could she mean the dismissal of Valdo Marx? Intriguing.

“Since then I do not believe he trusts himself. Which is a pity. Ah, my darling!” Pavetta stood to catch Ciri in a hug as her daughter ran towards her, and that was the end of the conversation.

It was far from the end of Jaskier’s fury.

* * *

_Present Day_

Jaskier was not, in general, one to encourage a fellow artist to share their work before they were ready. He was of the mind that art was personal, rather akin to opening one’s ribcage and allowing viewers to stick their hands inside and rattle around, and he would never force someone to endure such potential ridicule and exposure before they were ready.

However, these were special circumstances.

He had read through the entirely of Essi’s little booklet of poems and ballads, and he was quite convinced of one person who, above all, would benefit from doing the same.

Essi herself was curled up on the window seat in the library, lute at her feet, her elbow propped up on her knees as she gazed out over the grounds. It had been raining as of late, which quite matched the general mood. Essie was in mourning, Eskel was still unconscious, and Lambert was too injured to get out of bed, although certainly not too injured to swear about it.

Geralt was in and out of the house like a ghost. He sat up with his brothers at night, but in the daytime Jaskier could not have found him if he’d asked Triss to place a locating spell on the man.

It was oddly infuriating and also incredibly relieving at the same time.

“Poppet.” Jaskier spoke as he approached, so as not to spook her. Essi had always been the sort to retreat inside of herself. It meant people were often startled when she spoke her mind so clearly, and could be startingly frank when she felt a person’s behavior warranted rebuke.

Essi slowly drew her head up, as if she had been underwater. “Jaskier?”

He sat next to her and draped her feet over his lap. “I have an idea, and you are completely welcome to tell me to fuck off if you dislike it, but… this book is very good, Essi. I do mean that. Such natural talent does not come along often.”

“They’re all very sad, Jaskier.”

“Not all of them. The one about the thread and the cliffs was rather affirming. The idea that there will be those in your life who will never leave you alone.”

Essi ran her fingers over the fabric of her dress and said nothing. Jaskier pressed onward.

“There is a girl, the daughter of some dear friends of mine. They were well loved by the whole community, but they were recent casualties of the war. She is barely thirteen, and I thought—reading your poems might—help her to process such a loss.”

Essi’s one visible blue eye met his. “Both parents at once?”

Jaskier nodded. “She is fortunate. There is her grandmother, and a close friend of the family who is rather like an uncle or grandfather to her. A local druid who practically lives at the estate. And Geralt, whom you met, he is her guardian. The child is not alone. But that does not make up for the loss of—well. It does not make up for it.”

“No, it does not.” Essi stared out the window again, and then returned her gaze to Jaskier. “If you feel my stories would truly help her… you must warn her that they are not quite ready for publication.”

“I would dare to disagree.”

“Jaskier. You are far too prone to flattery with me, you always have been. I have shown my little book to a couple of esteemed bards and asked for their honest opinion, and I shall be taking their notes to heart upon revision. That is, when I can bring myself to do any revising. It is all too raw.” Essi tucked her hair behind her ear, a useless endeavor when it would only fall back into her face again a moment later. “This book is all I have, it is the work of a year and it is—it is my stamp as an artist. It must be perfect.”

“And I say that it is perfect, but that is not for me to decide. I will give it to Cirilla with your caveat. And someday you must share with me what notes those other bards gave you, they will be nothing but poppycock, I warrant.”

Essi blushed. “All right then, since you are the arbitrator of all taste, tell me, which was your favorite?”

“Ellen’s Song,” Jaskier said at once. “The last line about the forget-me-nots—the entire thing is haunting but that line grips your heart.”

He was not exaggerating, but he would have, if it would have gotten Essi to smile. Thankfully, his honesty seemed to be doing the trick.

* * *

Geralt worried for Eskel. Lambert passed in and out of delirium, some sort of pollen the leshen had utilized and the infection from his wounds combining to make him unreliable. Until Geralt could get proper information out of them, he could not go after the leshen himself, and so for now was obliged to simply pace in their room like a bored poltergeist.

However, there was still Ciri to think of.

He visited her during the day, and did his best to think of how to delicately approach the matter of her training, once again, with Calanthe. Although his presence had at first cheered the girl, she had sunk back again into sullenness and solitude.

Today, as he approached Cirilla’s room, he could smell sadness at once—it was like moss upon a stone, the air hovering above a river.

Geralt opened the door to find Ciri curled up on her bed, a small booklet in her hand, her pillow stained with tears.

He said not a word, but went to her. Ciri promptly curled up in his arms.

After a time, he tapped the booklet. “What is this?”

Ciri passed it to him. “Jaskier gave it to me. It’s a collection of poems. By a Miss Daven. He said he thought I would find it cathartic.”

Geralt flipped through the book, his eyes scanning such lines as _my heart is like a haunted house, it’s filled with things that scream and shout, they make their music in the night…_

Essi had recently lost her sister. Geralt could understand the nature of these poems—and why Jaskier thought they would help Ciri.

“This one,” Ciri said, flipping to a particular page. The title of the work was _The Lady of Stonewall._ “High in the halls of the kings who are gone, the lady would dance with her ghosts…”

Geralt stroked Ciri’s hair and listened patiently as his little cub worked her way through the poem. She had not cried, not in all this time since he had returned to England.

He was glad that he had given Sabrina Pankratz the pearl. It had been to help out a girl in need, and also to make Jaskier happy—the latter more present in his mind, he could admit, than the former. But now he owed both Essi Daven and Jaskier a debt of thanks, and while he could never make up all that he owed to Jaskier, the pearl could at least bring him equal with Miss Daven.

Ciri started on the next poem, something about a thistle, and Geralt continued to hold her, until the book slipped out of her fingers and she had fallen asleep against his chest.

* * *

_One Year and Six Months Ago_

When Yennefer returned to Aretuza, it felt as though she had never departed in the first place.

The usual tea was on the tray along with the usual sandwiches and sweets. The usual smell of dried herbs wafted from the laboratory, the usual servants went about their business, and the usual small explosions went off on the back lawn as the students practiced.

Tissaia remained in her usual spot, sitting and reading where the sun could warm her.

Yennefer had never felt such relief in her life.

Tissaia looked up and set her book aside. For two months, Yennefer had avoided writing to her. She had not taken a portal back to Aretuza. She had not wanted to admit that Tissaia had once again been right and known Yennefer’s own heart better than she knew it herself.

Now, however…

Yennefer crossed the room and sank to her knees, her head falling to Tissaia’s lap. Her hands gripped the other woman's knees, the fabric of Tissaia's dress bunching up between her fingers. She smelled of rosemary.

A hand landed softly in her hair. Yennefer trembled, yearning for a scolding, but none came.

“Oh, my storm.” Tissaia’s voice was like summer rain breaking up a long heat wave. “You truly thought he was the answer, didn’t you?”

In the face of kindness and compassion when she had yearned for discipline, her defenses were useless. Yennefer cried silently.

* * *

“I will be quite well,” Sabrina said as she put on her gloves. “Really, Julian, there is no need to fuss over me. I could pass her in the street and I would not feel a thing.”

“Do me a favor, sister dear, and don’t lie to me quite that badly. At least put some effort into it.” Jaskier grimaced at her. “Must you go to London?”

“I must speak with our solicitors. It will be perfectly fine, Julian, I told you.” Sabrina put on her bonnet. “I am over Triss Merigold completely.”

A servant entered with the tray of mail and Jaskier idly scanned through it. Ah, a letter from Cintra. Lovely.

“I shall have to tell the Rhiannons that you are to miss their dinner this Saturday. They are holding a small gathering in honor of…” Jaskier trailed off and then forced himself to continue. “…the return of Geralt of Rivia.”

“Back from that dragon hunt, is he?” Sabrina took a final look at herself in the mirror. “Quite an astonishing affair, I hear. He and Mr. Jackdaw working to save the creature’s life. If the Witcher had a bard with him the whole thing should be immortalized most prettily.”

“If Geralt of Rivia does not have a bard he has only himself to blame.”

“Careful, brother dear, that tone rings strongly of bitterness. What has the man done to injure you, anyhow?”

Sabrina must never know what Geralt denied her. “Why, that he did not choose me, of course. Haven’t you noticed, my sweet, that all I think about is of myself, first and foremost?”

“Do not play stupid with me,” Sabrina replied, but she allowed the matter to drop. “Behave at least for the course of a dinner, will you? We cannot afford to lose any standing. We have been obliged to endure far too many rumors about Mother’s condition as it is.”

“Yes, yes, I shall be on my best behavior.” He kissed her cheek. “Only for your sake, of course. Enjoy London, be a hedonist for me!”

Sabrina ignored him, and Jaskier waved her off with great pomp and circumstance, waiting until her carriage had disappeared before collapsing in the library.

Geralt of Rivia had returned after two blessed months of his absence.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

* * *

Geralt stared up at the imposing entrance to Cintra estate and tried not to curse everything in existence.

The dragon hunt had not gone as he had hoped. He and Yennefer had a falling out of deep and abiding proportions. She claimed he placed her on a pedestal, loving her for being untouchable rather than for her humanity. Geralt hated to admit that she had the right of it. Nor could he entirely deny the pain her detachment had caused him. While he had rejoiced for it to begin with, her continued insistence on keeping him at arm’s length had only deepened his pain with time.

They were both too much alike. Keeping one another apart, and then cursing the other for doing exactly as they did.

All it had done was drive his thoughts more and more towards a person who was not like him at all, but rather his opposite.

Geralt knew that if he entered Cintra now, he would find Jaskier inside. He had no earthly idea how to handle such a situation, no idea how his heart would take it, no idea how to pick himself up and guard himself after the disaster he had just endured.

If Triss knew the whole of the matter, she would laugh herself sick. And possibly also slap him. He would have deserved it. But she was safely in London, away from horrible temptations.

Geralt steeled himself. He was obliged to return to Cinta periodically, for Ciri. He must run into the bard sooner or later. Would it not be best to get it over with? To reduce the pain to mere nothingness, so that they might return to distant acquaintances?

With these thoughts in hand, Geralt entered to join the dinner party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The songs I shamelessly stole and modified slightly for Essi's poetry are:
> 
> Jenny of Oldstones by Florence + the Machine (from Game of Thrones)  
> Haunted House by Florence + the Machine  
> Elsa's Song by The Amazing Devil  
> The Rockrose and the Thistle by The Amazing Devil


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea if I got Vilgefortz’s characterization right from any version of the Witcher media. Forgive me.
> 
> I also feel I should clarify that I am basing much of Yennefer and Tissaia's relationship seen in this fic on my estimation of their relationship post Sodden Hill, when they have come to a reconciliation and are more open with one another.

_Present Day_

Yennefer was surprised to find herself summoned to Aretuza earlier that morning, rather than simply arriving for tea like every other day.

“Miss de Vries?” She entered the study to find Tissaia in the midst of paperwork.

“Ah, Yenna.” Tissaia stood. “I’m afraid I will be unable to join you for tea this afternoon. I have accepted an invitation to dine with Lady Fringilla.”

Yennefer found her fingernails digging into the palms of her hands. “Lady Fringilla?”

“Yes. I think it an excellent opportunity to continue to foster our relations with magical practitioners outside of England, in spite of the war.” Tissaia pressed her hands together. “I was harboring the hope that you would be able to undertake an errand for me.”

“An… an errand?” Was she once again a child, a first-year student who could do no better than run around fetching things?

It was to ensure she was out of the way this afternoon, Yennefer was sure of it. Afternoon tea with Tissaia was her domain. No other former student of Aretuza, or indeed any other instructor, took meals with Tissaia with any regularity. Only Yennefer had been accorded that honor. And now this woman sought to try and swoop in like a scavenger bird, not only to rule over Aretuza but to steal Tissaia’s time from her?

If Tissaia noted Yennefer’s anger, she ignored it. She had always been good at ignoring it. _Save your chaos,_ she had said many a time.

“There is an opening here for an instructor and I have a potential sorcerer I wish for you to meet. His name is Vilgefortz. His main residence is in London but I hope he can be persuaded to relocate here.”

“To take up a post at the most prestigious school in the country? He would be a fool to turn it down.”

“Not all of us are cut out to be instructors,” Tissaia replied. “I would appreciate it greatly if you would present my proposal to him.”

A set of papers neatly folded themselves into an envelope and sealed themselves shut with a dollop of wax, then floated over to Yennefer. She took them automatically.

“I cannot go myself, and I hate to waste a day. Sorcerers such as he are not long unemployed.”

Yennefer’s face burned with the humiliation. To be sent as a glorified letter carrier? She had thought Tissaia held her in higher esteem than this. It was all to avoid having Yennefer and Fringilla meet, she was certain beyond a doubt.

Possessiveness seized her and she nearly darted forward to kiss Tissaia’s cheek as was often her wont, nearly smeared the skin with her mouth like a brand.

Instead she drew herself up. “If that is how you think I am best to be used, Miss de Vries, then certainly.”

Tissaia’s cheeks flushed ever so slightly, and Yennefer knew her volley had hit. “I might as well ask, then, with what aim did you decide to begin goading me every time we meet as of late?”

“Perhaps it is merely that I better understand as of late exactly how I am appreciated.”

Tissaia flushed harder. “Badly done, Yenna. I had thought you better than this. I am not one of your toys.”

Yennefer felt like a column of fire, and she could not have said why. “And I am not one of yours.”

She portaled out of the room before Tissaia could reply and took herself promptly to London.

* * *

Geralt was of a mind to go and speak to Miss Daven promptly and give her his thanks, but it was late and she would most likely be retired. Perhaps he ought to stay for breakfast at Lettenhove for once and thank her in the morning.

His vigil by the side of his brothers had so far only been interrupted by the change of Triss or Sabrina. The two women worked in shifts so that a sorceress might always be at hand should things take a turn for the worst.

Geralt was far from one to judge Sabrina on the state of her behavior towards Triss when he himself had spent months insulting Jaskier to his face. But it was in those quiet midnight hours that he truly saw the cracks in Sabrina Pankratz’s armor. The way she slid her hands over her wife’s shoulders and dug in her heels to dispel the knots that had developed over the course of the day. She brought Triss her favorite tea. And whenever Triss was otherwise occupied, Sabrina stared at her with a soft longing that pricked at Geralt’s chest.

He had been quite blind to Sabrina Pankratz, once. He was only glad things had ultimately been set to right.

It was with such thoughts in mind that Geralt went quietly down the stairs to depart for Lettenhove. He had been up there only in the nights so that his presence would not be a burden to Jaskier. But leaving at such times disturbed the Cintra household, and he wished to avoid that.

He had reached the first floor when voices from Calanthe’s study had him arrested. They had not heard him, of that he was certain, for neither would have wished for him to hear their conversation.

“I would normally never presume to dictate someone else’s feelings.” It was Eist. “But Calanthe—”

“To do so now, while in the grip of grief, would be seen as weakness.”

“And would weakness be so horrid? Would it destroy your estate to admit that you are human?”

Desperate, intimate noises reached his ears and Geralt winced. The study door was ajar. He could not cross without his movements being noted.

“Not while I am still in mourning, Eist—you ridiculous man, who smiles when a woman turns him down for marriage?”

“You said not while you are still in mourning, that is the most hope you have given me in a dozen years.”

Geralt wondered where there was a convenient sorceress to burst into the house when you needed one.

“I see no reason to put such a fixation on marriage. I married once out of necessity, and the only moment of grace I ever received from it was the birth of Pavetta. For that gift alone, I will be grateful, but the rest of it was a misery, as you well know.”

“Until I am married to a woman I cannot sleep in her bed all night and wake up to the servants in the morning. I cannot eat breakfast at her table, I cannot kiss her hand in public, I cannot praise her as I wish. Is it really so shocking a concept to you that I could love you enough to be public about it? I do not wish to take over your home, Calanthe, I want only to share in it.”

“And I am of the mind to think—”

Somewhere, a door closed, most likely a servant, and the study fell silent.

Geralt took care to make noise as he crossed the hall. To this entire affair he could only offer up two thoughts—the first that a marriage to Eist might put Calanthe in a more forgiving temper, and the second, that Eist was doing a much better job at proposing than Geralt had.

Given that the man had done it several times by now, Geralt supposed Eist had the benefit of practice.

* * *

Vilgefortz, Yennefer surmised at once, would be the sort of instructor who had all of his students in love with him and hoping against hope that he would bed them.

If he did do such a thing, Tissaia would have his cock before he could offer up an apology, and the idea gave Yennefer a grim sort of satisfaction.

So far, however, Vilgefortz seemed the sort to flirt with disaster rather than engage with it entirely. He could be the sort of fresh blood Aretuza needed, or he could be its undoing. Yennefer was, personally, of two minds on the matter.

Vilgefortz invited her in and seemed gratified by her presence. “I have long been curious to meet Lady Yennefer. Your work with Geralt of Rivia in the dragon hunt—was that a year and a half ago now? In any case, we all heard of the power you exhibited. Quite the partnership.”

Yennefer kept her face still and neutral. “As always, I am delighted to hear a monologue prepared by a man who thinks himself fascinating. It is the highlight of my day.”

Vilgefortz seemed undeterred by her attitude. Yennefer supposed that was a point in his favor. Most men received one blow from her and spluttered like fish thrown onto a boat. Any teacher at Aretuza would need to be prepared to handle the moods of teenagers—teenagers who could perform such feats as bottling lightning, and so could cause more trouble with their fits of melancholy and youthful dramatics than most.

“Tell me, why has Aretuza not seen the benefit of your instruction?” Vilgefortz asked. “Assisting Witchers is all well and good but surely a sorceress can do more with her magic than use it for the preservation of dragons.”

Yennefer ghosted her fingertips over her inner wrist and offered up a smile. “I could always take your post, if you are disinclined towards it.”

“And if I am not disinclined?”

“Then I should hope you would exhibit more interest. Aretuza is not a school that has maintained its reputation because it accepts instructors who believe halfhearted devotion is all that is needed.’

“Who would have thought that Yennefer of Vengerberg would be so passionate about her alma mater?”

“First he talks about her as if she’s not there,” Yennefer mused, gazing at one of the bookshelves rather than at the man himself, “then he loses a limb.”

“So you deny any rumors…”

Yennefer stood. “Aretuza is my home. Whatever missteps I have taken in the past, I am formidable in its defense now. We suffered a mistake of character some years ago, as you well know. Since then Miss de Vries has risen to the rank of headmistress and rectoress of the council, and her aim is nothing less than restoring Aretuza’s reputation. That cannot be done if its instructors do not take the edification of its students seriously.”

Lightning sparked between her fingers.

“And what Miss de Vries takes seriously, you can be assured, I also take seriously.”

Vilgefortz also stood. “Will I have a seat on the council?”

“If you prove yourself within a few years of instruction. But this is not a job to undertake out of ambition.”

“I have faced my own trials in becoming a sorcerer, Lady Yennefer,” Vilgefortz replied, his voice softening somewhat. “And I understand what is at stake. If we do not continue to salvage our reputation our kind will die out. I cannot allow that. Surely a little personal ambition is not to be looked down on, but that is not my sole reason for wishing to take this post. The next generation must be brought up in Aretuza, and brought up properly. We must erase the stain on our name.”

Well. That was better than Yennefer had been hoping.

She sat down again. “And what sort of ideas would you be incorporating into your curriculum, if chosen?”

When she portaled back to Aretuza, it was to find Tissaia cleaning up the tea things. “You only just missed Lady Fringilla,” she noted.

“Such a pity.” Yennefer injected as much snobbish boredom into the words as she could manage with such a short sentence.

Tissaia would not look at her. “And how did you find Vilgefortz?”

“I was wary of him at first. There is something disarming about him and he cultivates it carefully. And he has ambitions. But his intentions are benevolent and he has fresh ideas. I believe they will inject new life into Aretuza at a time when we sorely need them. And his devotion to restoring the reputation and impression of England’s magical practitioners is earnest.”

Tissaia still would not look at her. Yennefer felt nauseated. “I knew I could count on your judgment in this matter.”

Shame and realization crept into her mind as partners. “You were not asking me to deliver a message. You did not want me out of the way. You wanted me to asses Vilgefortz for you.”

Tissaia, at last, dragged her gaze to Yennefer. “You have often accused me of being too unyielding and unwilling to change. I thought you would make a better judge of character than I in this matter.”

“Why did you not tell me?”

“Why did you not trust me? You did not give me a chance to tell you.”

Yennefer was painfully, deeply reminded of those months after her graduation, when she and Tissaia did not speak, when they hurled cutting remarks at one another on the rare occasions they did meet. “Is this because… of the last time?”

When Stregobor had been in his final grip of madness and Tissaia had come to Yennefer, asked for her help, and Yennefer had refused her. She had been haughty and proud, and it was only after word had reached her of Stregobor’s strange death in Scotland, details unknown, that she at last found the humility to return to Aretuza, to check up on her mentor.

Tissaia had never scolded her for it. And yet…

“No.” Tissaia parted her lips, paused, and then cleared her throat before beginning again. “The day you returned to me all was forgiven.”

“It was the first time you spoke to me as an equal.”

“It was the first time I saw you as one.”

Silence stretched on, but it was comforting.

Yennefer squared her shoulders. “Forgive me, for mistrusting you. I should have known there was an altruistic purpose to your request.” She held out her hands and wiggled her fingers.

Tissaia, with an indulging smile, took Yennefer’s hands in hers.

Yennefer stepped in and released Tissaia’s hands to clasp her waist. “Friends?”

Tissaia appeared taken aback by the word. Her hands hovered in the air over Yennefer’s, as if unsure whether to join hands again or push Yennefer’s touch away.

The urge came again, to smear her mouth against Tissaia’s skin. To mark Tissaia and Yennefer’s place in her life. Yennefer’s breath came up short.

“Yes,” Tissaia confirmed. “Of course, Yenna. We are friends. And you are always forgiven.”

Perhaps a bit of doubt or pain remained, for Tissaia looked at Yennefer’s chin, not at her eyes, but Yennefer pushed it aside. She would undo the harm done in time.

“Dinner, at my place, then. To make amends.” She tugged at Tissaia’s collar, to tease. “Do not be late.”

“Never,” Tissaia replied.

Good. Lady Fringilla could have all the tea she wanted with Tissaia. Tissaia was _Yennefer’s_ , and she would ensure that no one else, no matter how very accomplished or polished, would take her place.

* * *

_One Year and Six Months Ago_

Jaskier had not been looking forward to this dinner. Normally a social occasion would be something to celebrate, but the return of Geralt rather than Marx, Sabrina’s absence and despair, and the increasing impatience of his father had combined to drive Jaskier into a rare, sour mood.

Jaskier was the sort who tried to always find something to laugh at, generally the nonsense around him, and rarely did he have to exert himself to a great extent or find himself disappointed. Tonight, however, he doubted he would manage to secure such entertainment.

When he arrived at Cintra it was to find Mousesack, the Rhiannons, Mr. Tuirseach, and Geralt the only persons in attendance. Jaskier was not greatly surprised. Lady Yennefer was a near neighbor, but Sabrina was the only person from Aretuza that Calanthe regularly and happily invited, for Sabrina was more gentlewoman than sorceress. As for their other neighbors, Calanthe was not disposed to indulge in the company of those who could not keep up with her mind.

Cirilla, now twelve, was of an age when she could participate in such dinners rather than taking her supper earlier and absconding to bed, and so they were an even party. Jaskier intended to enter the drawing room, only to find himself nearly running directly into Geralt on his way in.

The two months away had not, to Jaskier’s surprise, been kind to the man. Geralt appeared as thoug he had not slept in all that time.

“Jaskier.” Geralt’s hands were wrapped around his swords. His knuckles were white.

“Ah, Geralt. Our dear hostess insisting on no swords at the table?”

Geralt appeared pained. “Hmm.”

Jaskier tapped the broach that was affixed to—well he wasn’t quite sure which one. One sword was silver and one steel, or so he had heard, but it was quite beyond him to know which was which when he had never seen them unsheathed. “I did not take you for a man prone to ornamentation.”

Geralt’s brow darkened. “I am not.”

He moved the swords away from Jaskier’s questing fingers and handed them off to a footman, with such a stern look that Jaskier was in no doubt what would befall the poor servant if he messed with the weapons in any fashion.

“Is it merely that we have been parted for a time?” Jaskier asked, unable to resist a bit of a jab. “Or are you even more disposed to shortness of temper than usual?”

“I hardly see how it’s your business,” Geralt muttered. A moment later his mouth tightened as if he was aware of the rudeness he exhibited. Misery flashed through his eyes and Jaskier could not help a stab of sympathy.

To his great surprise, he became aware of how his time at Netherfield had acquainted him with Geralt’s moods. The man was taciturn but not disposed to outright disagreeableness, at least not when in the company of friends, and friends he certainly had in number here. What had happened on the dragon hunt?

“Geralt.” Jaskier gentled his tone. “What’s wrong? Talk to me.”

If the slow blink was any indication, Geralt was surprised by Jaskier’s care. “It’s nothing. I’ve had trouble sleeping. That’s all.”

“A pity you are not Cirilla.” Jaskier smiled. “Then I could provide you with a lullaby.”

“That would make it worse,” Geralt said, apparently speaking without thought given that his jaw then clamped shut with an audible _click_.

Jaskier blinked rapidly. “What exactly are you implying?”

“Nothing.”

“No, no, Geralt, go on, be honest with me.” Jaskier placed his hands on his hips. “How’s? My? Singing?”

“Geralt? Mr. Pankratz? Are you two going to loiter in the doorway the entire time or will you allow the rest of us to pass into the dining room?” Calanthe inquired.

Geralt glanced upward, as though petitioning for death.

“This conversation is not ended,” Jaskier whispered.

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it fucking is.”

“You,” Jaskier declared, “need a nap.”

It was not the best of his volleys, but it was all he could come up with in the moment, and he turned smartly on his heel to go into the dining room, feeling as though he had won something—although exactly what it was he had won, he was unsure.

Why should it bother him what Geralt thought of his singing? He did not wish for the man’s favor. And yet the idea that Geralt would dislike his voice, his songs, made Jaskier’s stomach curdle.

He did his best to push it out of his mind, but he already suspected it would be a long evening indeed.

* * *

Geralt wondered whether tripping and falling on his steak knife would get him out of this dinner faster.

Pavetta and Duny were on tenterhooks. Calanthe was in a foul mood. Eist appeared resigned, and the two of them sent one another looks laced heavily with meaning throughout the meal even though they spoke not a word directly to one another.

It appeared to be up to Jaskier and Ciri to keep things lively and both rose admirably to the task, Ciri by providing impertinent questions and comments, Jaskier by finding any and every excuse to trot out entertaining exploits from his university days.

Calanthe took up the head of the table, Pavetta across from her, Duny next to his mother-in-law, then Mousesack across from him, Geralt on Mousesack’s left, facing Cirilla, Jaskier on his other side, and across from Jaskier, Eist.

It was a different arrangement than usual. Eist and Calanthe, as a rule, would sit across from one another. Now everyone had been shuffled accordingly.

Mousesack leaned into Geralt as the next course was served. “Tuirseach tried proposing again this afternoon.”

“Hmm.”

“Why she won’t marry him when it’s obvious she’s in love with him…”

Geralt said nothing and merely nodded in thanks at the servant who refilled his drink.

“The man’s tried half a dozen times by now,” Mousesack went on.

On Geralt’s other side, Jaskier made an expression that indicated he was most certainly eavesdropping.

“Calanthe’s first marriage was not an easy one. She has grown used to not having to defer to a man. The expectations of society…”

“Who cares for those when one is in love?” Mousesack murmured.

“Calanthe would rather die than give up what’s hers,” Jaskier noted, his voice soft and contemplative. “I think Geralt has the right of it.”

“Careful, bard, you stray close to complimenting me.”

Jaskier took a bread roll from the tray and shot Geralt a smirk. “Well, even a stopped clock is right twice a day, is that not the saying?”

“At least Eist has the courage of his convictions and declared himself,” Mousesack added meaningfully, his tone quiet enough that only a Witcher’s senses could pick it up.

Geralt scowled at him.

Jaskier was a puzzle that Geralt could not solve. He had no clear picture on what Jaskier’s thoughts for him might be. At times the bard seemed to dislike him greatly, but at others, Jaskier would engage Geralt in lighthearted sparring and wordplay. And the concern Jaskier had shown for him on their meeting this evening, even though Geralt had then ruined it with his own blasted impulsive phrases…

He had not returned to Cintra with any hopes in that quarter. His possibility of a future with Yennefer dashed, he had resolved to strengthen his choice in being alone. Yet now he found himself drawn in by Jaskier for conversation.

It was only because the others were not speaking. Pavetta and Duny, both timid souls by nature, were clearly in fear of setting off an argument between Calanthe and Eist, who both appeared to be waiting for the other to fire the first shot. Mousesack enjoyed the chaos far too much to abate it, and Ciri was twelve.

To who else could Jaskier appeal to save this dinner?

Geralt did his best to answer gamely as Jaskier plied him with questions about his hunts, and Kaer Morhen, lighthearted things that did not require much thought to answer.

“Oh, come now, a cockatrice is fiercer than that!”

“It looks like a lizard fucked a chicken, Jaskier, there is no song in that.”

“This is why you have need of a bard,” Jaskier replied with a laugh. “You see, Cirilla, do not be like your guardian here. He thinks such phrases as…”

Jaskier’s voice dropped as he imitated Geralt. “Kikimora. Stabbed it in the pond. Cut its head off.” He finished this with a poor replication of Geralt’s grunt.

Ciri burst into giggles.

Jaskier returned to his normal cadence. “…is a good enough explanation for what occurred.”

“Well, how would you describe it?” Geralt asked. He was aware his tone was testy, but it could not be helped. It was irritation, or stopping Jaskier’s mouth with his own, and he could not perform the latter.

“Well, first we must set the scene.” Jaskier gestured with his fork. “Elsinore. Night. Castle walls.” He paused. “Oh wait, that’s the wrong one, isn’t it?”

Ciri giggled again.

“You must tell us,” Pavetta said, her eyes sparkling but her hand gripping her fork tightly. Geralt could not have said whether her desire was truly out of interest or need to have something to cut this horrible tension—or both.

Jaskier launched at once into the story. Geralt was well aware that the bard had not been there for the first part of the hunt, yet Jaskier was able to put together the pieces of what had happened with remarkable skill. The man was more observant, Geralt realized, than he had given him credit for being.

The entire tale was told with much animation and romance, far better than Geralt could ever have done, not that Geralt would have tried. He preferred his actions to speak for themselves. Those were what truly mattered after all, wasn’t it?

He could not help his discomfort at the praise Jaskier gave. It was never too much, it was not exaggerated or laid on thick. But it was clear that Jaskier both knew his audience, and understood a skilled Witcher when he saw one, and both combined to have Geralt wondering if he could get away with throwing himself out the window.

At the least, however, it truly brightened everyone’s spirits.

Mousesack gave Geralt many significant looks, all of which Geralt ignored. He was not going to take this as hope that Jaskier could return his feelings.

…was he?

After dinner, Ciri was bundled off to bed by her mother while the rest of them took to the drawing room. Calanthe tended to prefer bridge, but they were an odd number.

As Calanthe moved to seat herself in her preferred chair, Eist stepped over to take a place next to her, as was their custom. It was only when he stepped close that both looked at one another and realized the situation.

Neither party moved.

Jangled notes sounded from the pianoforte and Geralt winced, rounding on Jaskier to find the bard gifting them with an apologetic grin. “Whoops! Fingers slipped.”

Out of the corner of Geralt’s eye, he saw Eist step away and find another seat while everyone else gazed at the bard.

Geralt raised an eyebrow at Jaskier once the others turned away again. Jaskier winked at him and then began to play a quiet melody, something that could serve as an undercurrent to conversation while simultaneously smoothing out any unfortunate pauses.

Geralt wished he had Jaskier’s ease at handling difficult social situations. He crossed over to the pianoforte as Mousesack and Duny began a valiant discussion about the state of the weather.

He meant to say something to the effect of an apology regarding his earlier comment about Jaskier’s singing. In his mind he had thought only of how Jaskier singing to him would serve to distract and enrapture him, and completely defeat the purpose of sleep. Instead it had come out as an insult.

But when he opened his mouth, what emerged instead was, “You did not exaggerate.”

“Hmm?” Jaskier continued to play but glanced up at Geralt through his lashes. It was a casual gesture, not meant to be intimate, necessitated by Jaskier’s divided attention between the music and conversation.

Geralt’s breath caught all the same.

“When you talked of the kikimora. You were not present for most of it. You could have exaggerated most. But you didn’t.”

“Why should I?” Jaskier’s fingers flowed gracefully over the keys. “It is true, one most embellish at times as a bard. Hunts can become repetitive. And there are unfortunate times when swaying public opinion must be placed before honesty. But that is with all aspects of society, is it not?”

A fair assessment. “There is a reason I dislike most society.”

Jaskier chuckled. “Yes, well. You do my job for me. Why guild the lily? It is a sad truth that respect does not win people’s hearts, and I am sure any bard of yours would tear their hair out turning your bland facts into fascinating anecdotes. But you are the best, Geralt. No one can dispute that. And the best can often stand alone.”

“Perhaps I would need a bard skilled enough that they would not be reduced to hair tearing.”

“I wish you the best of luck on that.” Jaskier finished the piece of music and transitioned into another. “Tonight has been the only time you’ve answered any questions with ease and I am well aware it was for the sake of saving this dinner from utter calamity.”

“I have told you, I am… not blessed with the ability to converse easily with strangers. You are no longer a stranger to me.”

“No? Have I been upgraded to plague, then?”

Geralt snorted with amusement and Jaskier flashed him a quicksilver smile before focusing once more on the pianoforte.

Silence fell, for their part, and Geralt watched Jaskier’s hands move over the keys. Could he have this, every night? Jaskier composing, playing, fiddling with his lute or another musical instrument, while Geralt saw to his armor and weapons, comfortable companionship between them? Dare he reach for it? Could he grasp it?

Calanthe called for him, her voice a warning, and Geralt went to attend on her before Duny or Mousesack became an unfortunate casualty of the frigid war between her and Eist.

He had not the opportunity to speak more with Jaskier that evening. He did, however, note that the bard employed himself at the pianoforte, and then again as a storyteller, to the point where he ought to have been paid for the distraction and entertainment he provided.

The man should not have to then ride home for miles after such exertion. Geralt spoke to Duny and had the man insist Jaskier be lent their carriage home to Lettenhove. There would be no danger then of the bard accidentally falling off his horse for having fallen asleep in the saddle.

“I am quite well to ride on my own,” Jaskier noted. Geralt walked with him to the carriage.

“Hmm.”

“Not that it isn’t appreciated, but…” Jaskier glanced over his shoulder. “I believe it was done out of guilt for my services tonight. How many more dinners are we all going to endure before Eist and Calanthe sort their mess out?”

“Hmm.” Geralt had no idea. Perhaps a hundred.

Jaskier moved to enter the carriage, and without thinking Geralt reached out, his hand grasping the bard’s, bracing to help him inside.

Jaskier had calluses on his fingers. Of course he did, he was a musician, and yet the idea had never crossed Geralt’s mind before. He had calluses, and his hands were warm, and his grip was unexpectedly strong.

He could catch a spike in Jaskier’s scent, something spiced and rich, and he heard the bard’s pulse pick up. Jaskier looked down at their joined hands as he seated himself, his eyelashes trembling as though he wanted to look up into Geralt’s face but would not give in to the impulse.

Duty done, Geralt let go. To linger would not have been proper.

Jaskier’s fingers were slimmer than his own.

Geralt turned away, his entire arm on fire, his fingers flexing against the emptiness that now replaced the warmth and weight of Jaskier’s hand. He ached all over, and hated himself for it.

Perhaps he ought to say something, if only to end the torment of indecision.

He felt the ghost of Jaskier’s touch all night.

* * *

_Present Day_

With thanks given to his pause for Eist and Calanthe, Geralt was late in arriving at Lettenhove. He thought little of it. Triss opened the door for him and gave him an account of Eskel and Lambert’s conditions, and then he took the stairs up to the guest bedroom where they reposed.

He had only reached the landing when he heard the singing.

Geralt had to pause, his breath stolen.

It was the first time he had heard Jaskier sing since that first ball at Cintra, and Jaskier had ceased to do so once he had known Geralt was in attendance.

Geralt leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. It was a horrible indulgence. It was intruding. It was not what Jaskier would want.

He listened anyway.

It was Gaelic, Geralt realized. He had not been aware that Jaskier knew other tongues. ‘The Wealthy Widow’, the song was called, it was popular for dancing. It was a rather upbeat song, but could easily be done softly, which was how Jaskier chose to sing it now.

_‘Sí do mhaimeo í, ‘sí do mhaimeo í,_

_‘Sí do mhaimeo í, Cailleach an airgid_

_‘Sí do mhaimeo í, ó Bhaile Inis Mhóir í_

_‘S chuirfeadh sí cóistí ar bhóithre Cois Fharraige…_

Geralt could hear Jaskier’s smile in his voice.

There was, as always, the treacherous part of his mind that whispered how he could have had this. How this lightness and cheer, this soft care and joy in art, could all have been his if he had only done better, if he had watched his tongue and his temper, if he had not been a coward and then a fool.

The song ended, and silence fell for a moment. Geralt knew the timber of this silence. It was the sort that signaled a pause between songs.

But then, rather than sing again, he heard Jaskier inhale sharply. His ears could pick up the rabbit quick beat of Jaskier’s heart, and instinct took over. He knew there was no danger, but he entered the room in two strides, prepared for the worst.

Instead, he was greeted by Jaskier at the side of Eskel’s bed, eyes a bit wide in surprise as the scarred Witcher blinked and took in the scene around him.

“Eskel,” Jaskier blurted out. “You’re—I must tell—”

Jaskier spun on his heel and nearly crashed into Geralt, who stepped back quickly to avoid a collision. “Geralt!”

“Geralt,” Eskel echoed, his voice a croak.

“I shall fetch Triss.” Jaskier fled the room.

Geralt could not allow himself to dwell on it. He crossed to his brother and took Eskel’s hand. At last, the terrible tension dwelling in his chest released. Eskel was awake. He was going to be all right.

Over the next few days, Jaskier was found to be more often in the room. Eskel, now awake, gained health in leaps and bounds. Lambert was slower but steadier in his recovery. He seemed to be displeased with Jaskier’s presence, but he was not inclined to say so out loud, if only because Geralt and Lambert both were willing to put up with quite a lot in order to indulge Eskel. Eskel had always been the one who had held onto his affability and charm.

Triss had instantly reminded Geralt of Eskel in that way. Both had managed to endure a situation, a climate, a series of trials not at all inclined to preserve one’s natural sensibility and softness of manner, with both qualities still firmly intact.

Geralt could see why Eskel improved so quickly with Jaskier now visiting every day. Geralt himself knew it was difficult if not impossible to find one’s spirits lifted in Jaskier’s presence when the bard had set his mind to cheerfulness.

He tried to keep himself out of the way as much as he could. His presence could only serve to turn Jaskier’s manner sour. Was this not the entire reason he had suggested Eskel and Lambert seek out Jaskier in the first place? Was this not what he had hoped?

It was easier to bury himself in his work and tell himself that the sick twist in his stomach would abate with time. Eskel was taken with Jaskier, it seemed, and Jaskier obviously was feeling much the same if he was taking such time to cheer the man up. It would only be a matter of time before a partnership was announced—and perhaps more—and Geralt would have to accept it. He might as well prepare.

In the meantime… he had a leshen to hunt.

* * *

Jaskier did his best to raise the spirits of the two Witchers, although he knew Lambert liked to rail at him for it. He had learned the hard way that Geralt was the sort to hide his true emotions under layers of consternation and cantankerousness, and so he was well prepared for Lambert attempting to do the same.

If it took the pinch of worry away from between Geralt’s eyebrows, Jaskier would have played until his fingers bled.

When he was not occupied with Eskel and Lambert, he worked on Essi. She seemed to achieve a level of peace of mind by going on long walks through the woods, and making use of the Pankratz library, but Jaskier could see that a could hung about her still.

He had gifted her with the pearl from Geralt and explained how the Witcher had wished for it to be used, but reminded her that such things were her own choice. Essi had told him she would think on the matter, but that to presently go to the place that had been so dear to her sister, and so full of memories of her, would bring only more pain.

Jaskier thought no more of it until he went to fetch himself some wine and his lute for a bit of composing and heard voices just outside of the library window.

He paused, unsure if he ought to move further. Could he be seen?

A man of more propriety would wish to go on their way and avoid embarrassing those speaking, but Jaskier had never been proper in his life and had no intention of starting now. He took a step closer so that he might observe the faces as well as the voices.

“I had thought Mrs. Pankratz better at holding a confidence.”

“Do not be angry with her. She and Jaskier wished for me to know the giver of such a gift, otherwise I would never have accepted it. They’ve given so much to me already—I believe they thought knowing it was you would change my mind. But I am not sure I can accept such a gift from a near stranger, not when I have no hope of repaying it.”

Essi and Geralt. Jaskier realized he had been holding his breath and struggled to inhale.

“I would not say that. I already owe you a debt.”

“How can that be?”

“Miss Rhiannon. The girl to whom you kindly lent your booklet. She’s my ward.”

“Jaskier told me of her misfortune. If my writing in any way helped her…”

“It did.”

“I would discredit my profession if I attempted to claim that my art was not worth something, I know the power it can have. But… please reconsider, if you truly want to gift me…”

“Does Jaskier believe in you?”

Essi bit her lip and flushed. She had always been uncomfortable with praise. “Yes.”

“Hmm.” Geralt pushed Essi’s hand back towards her, presumably the hand that held the pearl in it. That was clearly answer enough.

Jaskier stood there frozen until both parties had walked away. He had wondered, after the gift of the pearl—but he knew from Geralt’s history and seeing the Witcher with Ciri that the White Wolf had a softer heart than most would expect. It could have been simple compassion. But this—he had never heard the Witcher carry such a soft tone before except with Ciri.

And how could Essi do anything other than fall for Geralt? She had blushed that entire conversation and Jaskier could hardly blame her. It had not been his intention to secure them for one another when he had first introduced them but…

Geralt had need of a companion. Whether the man wanted to admit it or not, especially after so many disastrous previous attempts, was another matter altogether. And Essi—to become the bard of one of the most well-known Witchers in England, to be his partner and sing of his exploits—it was a most coveted position. It would solve all her issues regarding her career.

He should be happy for them. He ought to be happy for them. He would be happy for them.

…eventually.

* * *

_One Year and Five Months Ago_

Mother was nearing the end of things. Father had gone into town to fetch the doctor, and for once, Jaskier did not find it worth the trouble of arguing with him. He was unsure what he level of affection existed between his parents. He knew that both agreed the match was a good one in the eyes of society and that was their chief concern. He also knew that his parents presented a united front in all matters.

Love, on the other hand… he had never been aware of it even as a concern between them. When one’s spouse was dying was not the time to bring up such matters, so Jaskier kept his own council, and allowed Father to go where it pleased him.

Besides, it allowed Jaskier the afternoon by himself. It was a day of storms, and if he could have afforded it, he would have gone outside and run about in the rain, indulging himself like one of those Gothic heroines to which Sabrina was forever comparing him.

If Father returned and found Jaskier gone, while Mother was in such a state, Jaskier was never going to hear the end of it so long as he lived. He had quite enough to deal with already. He was not going to invite more conflict.

And so he stayed in the library, composing. So far all that he had were silly, ridiculous songs, and he wished to compose something—important. Something that would prove to any potential Witcher that Jaskier was capable of handling serious subjects, that he had depth, that he could sing of glory and death, heroism and heartbreak.

He had a tune, one with which he was almost happy, but no subject matter to accompany it. If only…

A knock sounded at the door.

Jaskier jumped, startled completely out of his reverie. Oh, for fuck’s sake, who could be disturbing him on his one, quiet afternoon of solitude? He so rarely found opportunities for composing as it was, with Father around. He had even dismissed the servants, aside from the maid attending on Mother, so that none of them could tattle.

When he opened the door, however, it was to find none other than Geralt of Rivia standing on his stoop.

“…Geralt?” Jaskier blurted out, forgetting societal niceties in his shock. “What the fuck are you doing here, you’re supposed to be at Cintra!”

The Witcher strode past him into the foyer, and Jaskier closed the door after him on instinct. The man looked—well. Jaskier could admit that there would be little that could make Geralt look unappealing, and to be sure the rain did add a dash of handsome dishevelment, but Geralt also looked… exhausted. When was the last time the man had slept?

Then again, he had looked exhausted at the dinner as well. Ever since he had returned from the hunt with the dragon. He had gone with Lady Yennefer, had he not? Lady Yennefer, who now avoided everyone and was said to be holed up in her home, receiving no visitors.

“When else would I be able to see you alone?” Geralt snapped. Then, as if aware this was far from the manner with which to endear himself to someone, he collected himself. “As you know, Mousesack and I are leaving for Kaer Morhen in the morning.”

“Yes, he mentioned the date of your departure.”

“I—hmm.” Geralt looked like he was in physical pain. “Fuck. Do you have any idea—how much I’ve—”

He stopped again, and Jaskier was in too much of a state of shock and curiosity to take advantage of the pause.

Geralt took a deep breath, then looked Jaskier in the eye at last. When he spoke, it was with the tone of someone who had practiced the words over and over in front of a mirror and was convinced of the importance of their meaning even if the grace of delivering them easily still escaped him. “I’ve struggled, but in vain. I need to say it. I admire you. I—love you, I _have_ loved you—for months, I’ve—will you marry me?”

Jaskier’s mouth dropped open. His voice was completely strangled when he spoke. “What!?”

Geralt squinted at him. “I hadn’t thought it that complicated of a question.”

“You cannot possibly wish to marry me. You hate me!”

“What? Since when!?”

“Since you first met me! If you think that I was unaware of your remarks towards me you are gravely mistaken! And ever since, your comments, your pithy remarks, as if you must find every opportunity to remind me that I am not worthy of being your bard so that I will get no uppity ideas—”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Geralt’s tone grew sarcastic. “I was unaware I was such a plague upon you all these months. Do you have any idea what I’ve been through?”

“What _you’ve_ been through?”

“You do realize that I am making this offer against my will, against my reason, against all common sense, and against all convenience?” Geralt snapped. “Every time I have turned around the last few months I have found myself stepping directly into the worst possible scenario in an attempt to avoid this but I can’t. I made a promise, one that I have never broken, and I have done so, for _you_.”

“Tell me, am I supposed to be flattered? These are the words of the famous White Wolf!” Jaskier clapped his hands. “Bravo, no wonder you have no need of a bard! Your own words tell the tale quite well on their own!”

“And it does not at all compel you to know that you have overrode all else in my life.”

“People say the same when flaming drakes attack their crops.”

“I went to the north of England to get away, to _try_ —I thought with Yennefer—and the entire time, you wouldn’t leave my mind. It was madness.”

…Jaskier fervently ignored the part of him that whispered there was a sort of pleasure to this, to knowing he so compelled someone. “Perhaps someone else would be flattered, I dare say any number would, but I am not one of them. I will not be won by a declaration that seems to be drawn out of your mouth with pincers!”

“I should think that with your family—”

Jaskier stepped into him, his voice turning into a hiss. “Do not go there, Geralt. Do _not_.”

Geralt inhaled deeply, turning away from indignant rage and towards stony imperiousness. “And is this your final response?”

“Yes.” Jaskier felt a lump growing in his throat and swallowed hard. “If I could feel gratitude I’d express it but I can’t—I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly bestowed it most unwillingly. I’m sorry to have caused you any pain, believe me, it was unconsciously done. But the feelings which, you tell me, have long prevented the acknowledgment of your admiration, can have little difficulty in helping you to overcome it.”

“And I might ask why, without even pretending to be polite about it, you so quickly reject me? I thought you wanted to be a bard, to partner with a Witcher—”

“That doesn’t mean I’ll take any bloody Witcher who’ll have me!” Jaskier snapped. “And I might ask why you decided to propose to me by insulting me!”

“How the fuck did I insult you!?”

“You told me that you liked me against your will, against your reason, and even against your character! Was this not an excuse—but even without that I have other provocations. You know I have.” Jaskier’s voice sharpened. “Do you think that any consideration would tempt me to accept the man who has been the means of ruining, perhaps forever, the happiness of a most beloved sister?”

For the first time since this had all started, Geralt seemed genuinely taken aback. His golden eyes widened and he shifted his weight, as if he was expecting a blow.

“Can you deny it?” Jaskier demanded.

“No.” Geralt paused. “I prevailed upon Triss to give up the idea of the marriage. It seemed to me that her attraction outweighed Sabrina’s. And there was the matter of your family—”

“Outweighed Sabrina’s!? Sabrina is in love with her, most ardently!”

“And yet I observed in her nothing but aloof politeness, the same sort of—”

“My sister hardly shows her true feelings even to me!” Jaskier shouted, interrupting Geralt and simultaneously throwing the last dregs of propriety out the window. “And can you deny that you also refused to uphold the promise made by your father, that Valdo Marx would be your bard and professional partner, dashing his hopes?”

“No.” Geralt’s eyes narrowed. “You take a great interest in him.”

“Who wouldn’t, knowing of his misfortunes?”

“His misfortunes?” Geralt scoffed. “Oh, yes, those have been great indeed.”

“And now you mock him.”

“So this is what you think of me? I suppose you would’ve accepted my offer if I hadn’t been honest with you. You expect me to pretend that your family’s behavior, their insistent snobbery and condescension, their refusal to support or accept your work as a bard, was something to be glad about? You expect me to fucking rejoice that those would be my in-laws?”

“Oh ho ho ho, trust me,” Jaskier warned him, baring his teeth a little, “I’m _glad_ you made your proposal in such a manner. It saved me the trouble of feeling sorry for refusing you. But trust me, Geralt, you couldn’t have made me an offer of marriage in any possible way that could’ve induced me to accept it. Your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain for the feelings of others have convinced me that you are the last person in the world that I could ever be prevailed upon to take up as my Witcher, never mind as my spouse!”

It was only after he finished speaking, his voice raised to a crescendo, that he realized how close they had gotten. How they were, indeed, only now inches apart, fury riding hot in Jaskier’s eyes and flames of a matching nature in Geralt’s.

Despite all of his anger, or perhaps because of it, there was a terrible notion in him, a reckless desire to seize the infuriating man by the front of his armor and kiss him.

The rain outside seemed to swell and become an unbearable orchestra, a storm to match their hearts. Jaskier felt as though whichever one of them moved next, whatever one of them next did, was going to be as thunder.

The carriage pulled up outside.

Jaskier turned, instinct taking over—Sabrina, returned from London—Geralt seemed to realized it as well, by sound or scent or some other Witcher means—his eyes went wide, he took a few silent steps back—

The door opened and Sabrina stepped in, rather pale. Jaskier looked back over his shoulder.

Geralt was gone.

* * *

Yennefer groaned and squeezed her eyes shut as Tissaia threw open the curtains. “Is this the part where you turn me into an eel?”

Tissaia crossed to Yennefer’s bed and yanked back the covers. “Get up. Moping does not become you.”

“Everything becomes me,” Yennefer drawled. “Do you not know? I am perfection.”

“If you were perfection you would not have thrown a fit on your graduation day and insulted several members of the royal family.”

Yennefer and Tissaia had not spoken for several months after that. Yennefer did not like to think on it.

She sat up. “Miss de Vries, will you not let me sleep in peace?”

“You are not sleeping. You are insulting yourself.” Tissaia turned to face her. “And do put on a dressing gown.”

“I had no idea the sight of breasts and bare collarbones was so offensive to you. Do you never look into a mirror?” Yennefer rose and put on a dressing gown anyway. It was hardly her fault that she wore gauzy, insubstantial garments to bed and Tissaia insisted on invading her private quarters.

“Yenna.” Tissaia was not scolding her, but nor was she soft. “He is not worth these dramatics.”

Yennefer commanded a brush to work on her hair. “I like him.”

“I presume that is a prerequisite to bedding someone.”

“I do not appreciate being placed on a pedestal. I do not appreciate someone making choices for me, without my consent or input, and I do not…” She would not cry, yet again, in front of Tissaia. She drew herself up. “I am tired of having power, and magic, and knowing not what to do with it. I am tired of being beautiful, and desirable, and unloved.”

“You are not unloved, Yenna.”

“My beauty is loved. My magic is loved. My power, my body, the _idea_ of me is loved.” Yennefer gestured widely. “If I had no such things, I would be the same lonely outcast I was all my youth. Even you, Miss de Vries. Even you love me for my magic.”

Tissaia looked alarmed. “That is not true.”

“Oh? So you would have taken me in, advocated for me, found me a home, if I had no magic in me?”

“…I would not have, no,” Tissaia admitted. “I would never have known of your existence if you had not accidentally portaled to Istredd’s room. But it is not for your magic that I… care for you.”

Tissaia crossed to her and took Yennefer’s hands in hers, so that the backs of Yennefer’s hands rested in Tissaia’s palms, exposing Yennefer’s inner wrists.

“Your magic comes from your indomitable willpower. Your strength of conviction. Your determination to prove yourself. The only thing ever holding you back was your own misery, your self-loathing.”

Tissaia’s thumbs slid down Yennefer’s wrists to her pulse, lower, until their fingers tangled. Tissaia squeezed lightly. “That is why I care for you, Yenna. Those traits were always in you, and always will be. Magic or not. Perhaps it is time you thought of those as your value, rather than your beauty or your ability to float a teapot.”

Yennefer forced herself to look into Tissaia’s eyes. She would not back down now.

Tissaia inclined her head. “How can you expect anyone to see value in you when you still do not see value in yourself?”

“You just said that you did.”

“Well, is that not someone’s job, when they care for a person? To see their virtues, even if the person is unable?”

Yennefer felt the horrible, aching emptiness in her chest that had been carved out of her on the mountain loosen. She kissed Tissaia softly on the cheek. “Thank you, Miss de Vries.”

She turned and banished the hairbrush. “Speaking of teapots, I shall ring us up some breakfast.”

“Perhaps that is best,” Tissaia said, a bit fainter than usual. “I could do with something.”

Yennefer blew her a kiss and portaled into her closet to select an outfit. She could not entirely banish the specter inside of her, but it now felt more manageable, and that was a start.

* * *

Sabrina had made it known she was in London, she told him. It was a ridiculous chance, or so she had said, and yet she had been unable to help herself.

Triss Merigold had not called.

Jaskier had been tempted to tell her all, and instead had gotten her to bed. Father had returned, much was made of Mother, and it was all Jaskier could do not to scream for the rest of the evening.

The next morning he took himself on a walk. The walls of the house had closed in on him all through the night.

Geralt in love with him? The idea was so absurd he could still not fully wrap his mind around the idea. The idea, indeed, that anyone at all could—well. Jaskier fell a little lightly in love with everyone he met, and he had great fun at Oxenfurt. His friends had also been his lovers.

But all tired of him eventually. Or perhaps he had tired of them. In either case, no one had ever fallen for him, not deeply, and he had long been convinced that no one ever would, and truly, where was the pain in that? He had not enjoyed a childhood in the shadow of a loving marriage. And whichever spouse he took up would have to endure Jaskier going hither and yon as a bard. His first duty would always be to his Witcher. Who could possibly endure such an arrangement?

Geralt was in love with him. Geralt wanted to marry him. Geralt of Rivia, who despised bards, took up no partner, who bedded sorceresses and declared that Jaskier was not handsome enough to dance with—!

Many events of the last few months spun themselves into a new light. Mousesack’s teasing, and insistence on Jaskier wearing Geralt’s clothes until Jaskier could send for his own. Geralt’s remark that bards should be accomplished readers, and Mousesack’s own detailing of ideal bardic traits. The way Geralt looked at him, Geralt asking him to dance despite never dancing with those with whom he was not exceedingly close, Geralt’s remarks, their dinner last month at Cintra—it made Jaskier feel as though he stood in the center of a kaleidoscope.

Last night’s rain had given the area a great deal of mud but also a freshness, and Jaskier reveled in the sting from his lungs as he breathed in deep. How could he have not seen it?

As if summoned by his thoughts, a rider approached, all in black. It could only be one person.

Geralt seemed startled to see Jaskier out on the road. “I… thought you would be at home.”

“I’m not,” Jaskier said, stupidly.

They stared at one another.

Geralt dismounted, and produced from his pocket a folded piece of paper. “I—planned to leave this for you. To read. If you—if you would. Read it.”

Jaskier numbly took the letter. Geralt would not meet his gaze. Jaskier was not entirely sure he wanted him to.

Geralt swung back up onto Roach and departed without a word.

He dimly recalled Mousesack commenting on Geralt’s ease with writing, the many pages he filled in corresponding with Vesemir. Perhaps the Witcher felt whatever needed to be said would be best done in this manner. Perhaps he merely wished to avoid spending any time in Jaskier’s presence after their exchange of words yesterday.

Jaskier opened the letter. His legs began to walk again, without thought, taking him down familiar paths through the fields and hedges. He saw nothing around him. It was all the letter.

_Jaskier,_

_If you think this will be a repeat of yesterday, then be at ease. I have no intention of trying for your hand again, in marriage or professionally. I only wanted a chance to apologize and explain._

_Two charges you have laid against me, and to those two charges I will respond. I am no good with my words in person. I say what I think, and I am honest. But I have no eloquence. I’m not like you. I’m better on paper._

_To the first charge, I can only say that my actions, although mistaken, were in service to a friend. I observed the behavior of your parents and was alarmed that the warm heart of someone so dear to me would be broken. That she would propose and be rejected and suffer the derision and ridicule of the neighborhood. You know your sister better than I do. If I had thought she loved Triss as Triss loved her, I would not have separated them. All I can offer are my apologies. My only thought was to protect her._

_As for the second—you are too generous to trifle with me. I know that what I tell you will remain in your heart alone. But you must understand there are none who know of this. I have ensured it, for the sake of someone I loved._

_When I first left Kaer Morhen, it was indeed the hope of Vesemir and the dean of Oxenfurt that I would choose Marx as my bard. They were not quiet about these hopes. Vesemir holds great pride in me and wanted my skills celebrated. The dean, as I’m sure you know, is a proud man. I am cautious by nature and made no promises but agreed to take Marx on for a trial period._

_It was during this time, new to the profession, that I met Renfri._

_She was a few years younger than I, full of fire and fury, and needed an outlet for it. Against tradition I took her on as an apprentice. I told no one, to protect her from the Trials that Witchers must go through, and because of her personal circumstances. I knew that Vesemir would not approve. I’ve since wondered if I was blinded by love. I do not know._

_Renfri’s story was tragic. She had been forced from her home and hunted by others, believed to be cursed, all because of the circumstances of her birth. She was only eighteen and had already seen more of the violence and prejudice of the world than most. Had life gone as it ought for her, she would have been heir to a vast estate and a celebrated lady of society._

_Her story was compelling and intriguing, and Marx wanted to put it into song. I insisted he keep it to himself. I wanted to protect her, and it was her history to share, not his. I already had my hands full with Renfri’s desire for vengeance. I’m sure you understand. She was young. We’ve all been there._

_I did my best to curb Renfri and to channel her anger into productive means. She had great promise. You may not understand now but if you had met her, I know you would see her as I did. She was full of light, Jaskier. In spite of it all. She had an excellent sense of humor. And she never once looked at me as a monster or a mere sword for hire. I think you two are very similar._

_After a few months with Renfri and Marx, I heard of the striga up north. I did not trust the safety of either of them in this matter and so I requested they wait for me. I went to deal with the striga alone. You know how that went—that job was the making of my reputation. But when I returned, I found that Marx had disobeyed my wishes. He had made a ballad for Renfri’s tale and was selling it far and wide. He performed it wherever he could._

_I tried to stop him, but it was too late. The man who had been after Renfri was able to find her through Marx and through me. I could not stop him from attacking her or her from trying to wreak her vengeance. There was no care for collateral damage. The beast of a man tried to convince me to kill Renfri for him. Renfri used innocent people as bait to draw her enemy out._

_I will not detail the battle. Suffice to say, both died. I wish I could say that Renfri had the satisfaction of her revenge. I wish I could say she was at peace when she went. I still ache over what I could have done differently. How I could have prevailed upon her. How I could have saved her life by bloodying my own hands. I thought I was taking the better path, but instead I lost someone dear to me, and I killed her._

_God forgive me, it was my blade that ended her life._

_I will never forget the look in her eyes as she died. You admired the broach on my sword, once. It was hers. I carry her with me, always. She is the reason I act, with perhaps too much harshness, to protect those for whom I care. I will never lose someone as I did her._

Jaskier’s blood went cold. He knew who Renfri was. Or at least, he knew her story. The Ballad of the Black Sun Princess. Jaskier had not known Marx to be the author of the song.

There had been speculation as to who, precisely, it had been about. The details of Stregobor’s actions had been hushed up, but none more so than his death. Aretuza had been quick afterwards to dismiss him as a lunatic. He was the reason Calanthe distrusted sorcerers.

But although rumors about Stregobor had been impossible to stomp out, Jaskier had never heard anything about a woman named Renfri. Now he understood why. Geralt had hushed it all up. Jaskier knew it in his blood.

_I dismissed Marx. Told Vesemir that I would never work with him. Both Marx and the dean raised a fuss but I stayed firm. From that point I admit I was prejudiced against bards. I promised myself I would never partner with one, and I held to that promise, had no thought of taking one on, until I met you._

_Renfri had already suffered indignity and gossip in her life. I knew the world would not remember her as I did. She was young, Jaskier. Too young for what she went through. I told no one of what happened. I didn’t care about Marx, only about protecting her memory. I did whatever I had to so that the public would not know. I assumed Marx was smart enough to keep his own mouth shut. It seems I was mistaken._

_He is without honor, Jaskier. I do not know to what level he has endeared himself to you. But do not trust him. All other faults laid at my feet, I will accept. Say I was callous, cruel, uncompromising. I have been so in the past. I will take any insult you give me, any name you call me. But not this. Marx knows the shame he carries. For your own sake, do not allow him into your confidence._

There was a line here that was scratched out, and no matter what way he tilted the paper and held it up to the light, Jaskier could not make it out. After that the letter read,

_I wish you every happiness._

_Geralt of Rivia_


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way I don’t care who the show cast, Eskel in this fanfic is played by Charlie Cox and you can all pry that from my cold dead withered hands.

_One Year and Five Months Ago_

Sabrina gaped at Jaskier as he entered the house. “Julian! What on—where have you been! It’s been hours!”

It had, indeed, been hours. He felt numb all over. He had read and reread Geralt’s letter until the words had branded themselves onto the backs of his eyelids.

He had been the world’s most unmitigated ass.

Geralt had pricked his pride, and Jaskier had allowed that to color everything. He had believed Marx, a man he had only just met, a man with no connections, no friends to vouch for him. And what had Marx said? That his respect for Vesemir, the leader of Kaer Morhen would keep him from being open about Geralt’s behavior and slandering Geralt’s name. And yet, the moment opportunity had struck, everyone had known about Geralt’s treatment of Marx—Calanthe herself had been railing about it. And Marx’s declaration that he would not avoid seeing Geralt, that Geralt ought to be the one ashamed, and yet Marx had not attended Lady Yennefer’s ball. He had avoided it, not Geralt.

Jaskier ought to have been more suspicious. He ought to have better guarded himself. How could he have become so quickly prejudiced and lost his way? He had made a fool of himself.

Not that—there was some merit to be felt in holding onto indignation where some of Geralt’s behavior was concerned. He had not conducted himself like a gentleman and Jaskier felt some sort of justification in his responsive anger.

But to be so misjudging, when Jaskier was someone who prided himself on his ability to read others, to know their motives and tempers, to be the life of every party, to win over everyone—it was a devastating blow to his self-image.

Until this moment, he had never known himself.

“I went on a walk,” Jaskier replied. He had Geralt’s letter safely tucked into the inner pocket on his jacket so that it might not be seen by anyone. Geralt’s confessions had been for Jaskier’s eyes alone, and he would not betray the man’s confidence. Not even to alleviate his own shame.

“You went traipsing through the marshes, more like,” Sabrina said. “Go and change, quickly. Father will kill you if he sees you in such a state.”

Sabrina noted something in his manner, he knew it. But she said nothing to him, and for that Jaskier was grateful. It could be that she supposed it had to do with Mother’s condition. It was only the week after that she breathed her last, and as frustrating and distant as their relationship had been, it could still sting to lose a family member.

Jaskier allowed his sister to think what she would and hid his turbulent feelings as much as he was able. He must apologize. He must make amends. But how to even begin?

He hoped never to see Geralt of Rivia again, if only to save himself from the humiliation he would feel at the man’s presence, the shame that beat hard against his breastbone like a trapped bird.

* * *

_One Year and Two Months Ago_

Triss read the letter over again to be sure of its contents. She had not heard from Geralt since he had departed to Kaer Morhen for the winter, but to that she was accustomed. Receiving letters in which he could be terse, that she also considered run of the mill.

But this was…

_Triss,_

_I have received word of the elder Mr. Pankrtaz passing. Some sort of heart attack._

_I was wrong, before. I believed Miss Pankratz to be indifferent to you, but my eyes have been opened. I apologize for any pain I’ve caused you. Go to her. She has lost both parents in the span of a few months and will need support._

_She does love you, Triss. Most ardently, I was told._

_Geralt_

Could she hope? Could she try again after her heart had been wrenched in half so thoroughly?

Triss Merigold was a romantic at heart. She ordered for her carriage.

_Postscript:_

_I am leaving England shortly. I do not know how long I will be gone. Check in on Ciri for me, please._

Why on earth Geralt would wish to leave England, the source of all his friends, she had no idea. But she had no address to respond to, other than Kaer Morhen and he might have already departed by the time any missive reached him, and so she could not ask as to why. It was quite odd.

When she arrived at Lettenhove, it was to find the place shuttered and in a state of mourning. The servants all wore black armbands. She was shown into the drawing room and told the lady of the house would be with her shortly.

Sabrina Pankratz did not keep her waiting long. “Tr—Miss Merigold?”

Triss stood and turned to face her.

Sabrina wore all black, her hair back and tightly done up as was her custom. Her eyes glittered.

“I had a letter,” Triss said. “It said—you had need of me?”

Sabrina’s lips were white. “Yes.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “Every need.”

She said no more, but Triss Merigold was used to dealing with those who spoke little of the words in their hearts. She crossed to Sabrina. “Your hands are cold.”

“I have felt as though I was marble the past few months,” Sabrina admitted. She did not need to elaborate as to why.

“Then call me Pygmalion,” Triss replied, and taking the other’s face in her hands, she warmed her up well enough.

* * *

Jaskier was unashamedly peering through the keyhole to see what Miss Merigold was doing at Lettenhove.

Ah! She crossed to Sabrina—and oh well done Triss, seize the moment indeed.

Jaskier politely straightened up and pressed his ear to the crack in the door instead so that he could return to his peering when they had finished their more intimate exchange of affection.

To his horror, what next he heard was sobbing.

He bent down again at once and fixed his eye through the keyhole to find Sabrina on her knees, crying as though someone were smashing her heart to pieces in front of her. Triss Merigold sank down to join her and wrapped her arms about his sister’s shoulders.

Sabrina had not cried when Mother died, nor when Father passed suddenly. She had never cried, at least so far as he knew, over Triss going to London. His sister was too self-contained for such things. Now, in the moment of her joy, her relief, the dam at last broke and all she had withheld came spilling out of her in a rush.

“Oh, my darling.” Triss was affectionate in both touch and words. She passed Sabrina a handkerchief.

Sabrina tried at several points to speak, and managed only hiccups.

Well, if Triss still loved the woman when she was covered in snot and had eyes puffed up like a strawberry pastry, then Jaskier supposed that was all the proof one needed of devotion.

Triss continued her affirmations that Sabrina was a darling, and provided such tender touches to match her words, until Sabrina was at last somewhat composed once more.

“I have been a fool,” Sabrina chastised herself, wiping at her eyes. “I ought to have begged you to marry me the night I met you.”

Triss laughed merrily. “I would not have accepted you on the night we met. A few weeks later, however…” She paused. “I ought to have trusted in you. I was too easily persuaded to doubt. But I am here now, my darling, and I shall not leave unless you force me.”

The very idea of Triss departing seemed to fill Sabrina with dread, for she clasped Triss’ hands to her with alarm.

Triss, with a graceful spirit, merely brought Sabrina’s knuckles up so that she might kiss them.

Sabrina’s face fell. “I cannot make you any public declarations as of now. So soon after Father… it would not be proper. And I will do things properly, for you. You deserve no less. But… if you will have me… at least between the two of us, for now, I would have there be an understanding.” Her voice grew thick. “You are the sweetest creature I have ever beheld and I would not be parted from you, not for the world. If you are disposed to wait to put up the banns, if you have such patience—”

“Yes.” Triss smiled as she took Sabrina’s face in her hands. “Yes, yes, a thousand times yes.”

“Oh, fucking finally,” said Jaskier.

And then remembered they were unaware of him eavesdropping.

* * *

_Present Day_

Whether she wished it or no, Yennefer had become aware as of late that there were some customs she must give over to in the interest of propriety. Once, she had spat in the face of all except which pleased her, and she had taken special care to flaunt and flout the rules she considered stifling.

Now she held a greater understanding and attempted to proceed with caution. She would break the rules that pleased her, but subtly, and would follow those she must in order to save up her rebellions for when they were most needed.

All this to say, she was obliged to call upon Lady Fringilla and return the lady’s visit to herself, if she wished to avoid accusations and veiled gossip.

Lady Fringilla was most welcoming, apologizing that she was only in town for an uncertain amount of time and as such she was only renting, admiring Yennefer’s dress, and in short behaving precisely as a gentlewoman ought.

Yennefer disliked her all the more for it.

“Your manners are most pleasing,” she said out loud. “It is no wonder Miss de Vries has taken such a shine to you. You would have been her model student.”

“I have heard tales of Tissaia’s firm hand with her students,” Lady Fringilla replied. “I doubt that she would show favoritism towards anyone, which I believe to be the best method. Otherwise one is in danger of sowing discord among one’s students.”

“A wise philosophy,” Yennefer said.

Internally, she entertained herself by imagining Lady Fringilla’s hair on fire.

“I am of the hope, as you know, to assist in the school,” Lady Fringilla went on. “However I admit I was unaware of the deep level of assistance you already provide. I was given to understand that there had been a falling out some years ago between yourself and Tissaia.”

 _Miss de Vries. She’s Miss de Vries to you._ “Ah, yes. There was a period of… rockiness in our relationship. But that is all in the past now.”

“I am glad to hear of it. Do tell me what it was like as a student in Aretuza, I have hundreds of questions!”

Yennefer did not bother with knocking on Tissaia’s door later. “Miss de Vries if you hire that woman to assist you at Aretuza I am going to have to burn the entire place to the ground for honor’s sake if nothing else.”

Tissaia stood behind her desk, hand raised, apparently in the middle of a lecture if the two wet and bedraggled ladies in front of her were any indication.

“We will continue this lecture at another time,” Tissaia said at last. “For now, you will go to your rooms and make yourselves presentable.”

The two students leapt from their seats, clearly grateful for deliverance, and rushed from the room.

“No, Yenna,” Tissaia said, “I am not busy, what troubles you?”

Yennefer was not to be deterred in this. “Lady Fringilla. What is your aim with her?”

Tissaia appeared to be holding in a sigh. “I have no aim.”

“She has one, I know that she does.” Yennefer swept aside some papers and seated herself on Tissaia’s desk. “She seems to be under the deeply mistaken impression that you will gladly accept her as co-headmistress should she drop enough fine hints.”

Her heart beat too fast, too wild in her chest, and she struggled to calm it. She had put in too much work to make amends for the past to lose Tissaia to some fine, poised lady now.

The moment word had reached her of Stregobor’s death and the rumors of what he had done to those poor girls, she had thought only of Tissaia. How the woman had given her life and soul to Aretuza, only to possibly lose it because of the actions of a cruel, heartless man.

She had been terrified to set foot on the grounds of the school once more, certain that Tissaia would reject her and throw her out. Had Yennefer not refused to aid Tissaia when Tissaia had asked for her to look into the matter? Had she not all but laughed in her mentor’s face?

Oh, how vindicated she had felt then. How hollow she had felt later, searching for Tissaia on the grounds.

Tissaia had been at her study, supposedly at work with letters, but her hand had trembled and the pen had done naught but drop ink onto the paper.

Yennefer had been certain that Tissaia had not even known who she was as Yennefer had gone to her, as Yennefer had knelt down and clasped Tissaia’s knees. Only after a long moment had Tissaia curled her finger under Yennefer’s chin to tilt her face up—and then had she known her.

“I’ve come home,” Yennefer had said, and that had been all. From that day onward, she had been with Tissaia every day.

Aretuza was home well enough, but more than that—Tissaia was home. Yennefer could not bear to share her.

“Well. I am capable of dropping fine hints of my own.” Tissaia gazed up at her steadily. “Yenna, I have no intention of offering Lady Fringilla a post here. She is a fine sorceress and I have deep regard for her but the students already possess a rectoress who is generous with the lectures. We have no need of another.”

“Are you solemn in this promise?”

“Have you ever known me to be anything else?”

Yennefer flew forward and kissed Tissaia on the cheek. “Miss de Vries, you have no idea how you clear my mind. The impertinence she has taken with you has driven me mad these past few weeks.”

“We cannot have you madder than you already are,” Tissaia observed. She gently pushed Yennefer back.

Yennefer caught her hand. Strange possessiveness still seized her—indeed with the news that Lady Fringilla was no threat, it only intensified. “Allow me to deal with the two girls. Inform me of their misdeed and I will attend to their consequence.”

Tissaia gave a sigh. “Yenna…”

Yennefer pressed the back of Tissaia’s hand to her cheek, cradling it. “Please, Miss de Vries? Indulge me.”

“I never do anything but indulge you.”

“Well, it is to make up for your firm hand with me as a student.”

“You ought to receive a firm hand now,” Tissaia muttered.

Warmth shot through Yennefer and her fingers tightened around Tissaia’s wrist. The air went out of her in a rush. “Is that a confirmation, then? The girls will be my responsibility?”

“Yes.” Tissaia spoke in a low, quiet tone. Abruptly, she stood. As she did so, her hand slid down Yennefer’s cheek, fingertips brushing her throat before all contact was lost.

Now Yennefer was the one staring upwards.

For once, it occurred to her how such a scene would look to one who entered the room. Normally she gave not a thought to such things, the possible observations and conclusions of outsiders nothing to her, but in this instant it gave her pause. She was seated at Tissia’s desk, Tissaia above her, standing near enough to—

“What impertinence?”

Yennefer’s head was in a fog. “What?”

“You said Lady Fringilla was impertinent in regards to me. In what manner?”

“She—oh, many little, vexing things. She spoke of you by your first name. An honor I know you do not bestow on many.” Yennefer tried for an arch look, and then a smile. Both felt wrong. “Not even I may call you so.”

Tissaia seemed to take pause at that. “You… do you wish to call me so?”

She still could not breathe. “Yes.”

Oddly, for the past few weeks she had wanted nothing else more. Not since Lady Fringilla had first done so.

“Then you may. If anyone has earned the honor it is you.”

Yennefer tested the word on her tongue. “Tissaia.”

While she could not breathe, it seemed Tissaia had the opposite struggle, her breath coming in quicker than usual. “Yes,” she said, as if Yennefer had asked her a question.

“Tissaia,” she repeated, softer this time.

She was afraid of the feeling in her chest, a feeling of such great depth and breadth it felt like an inescapable wave bearing down upon her. “I must—attend to the girls.”

She fled the room.

* * *

“Some say it’s a blessing,” Jaskier murmured, half-singing under his breath as he plucked at the lute. “Some say it’s a curse…”

“Jaskier?”

He looked up. “Ah, Poppet!” He set his lute aside and stood. “Well, have you thought about it? The countess would be happy to put you up in Bath, she is not using the apartments at the moment.”

“I thought you two had… um.”

“I have ‘um’ with many people in my time and I manage to remain friends with all of them, at least after some period of distance on occasion.” One marked exception notwithstanding, and Jaskier had not even had the benefit of ‘um’ with the man, or anything else for that matter. He and Geralt had hardly even touched. “Truly, I think the atmosphere and waters will do you good. You must not allow yourself to turn into a ghost.”

Essi gave him a small smile. “If you say so. I am still unsure what to do about the pearl the Witcher gave me. It seems wrong somehow to use it.”

“Geralt would want you to.” Jaskier held in his wince, but only just. “Believe me. I had not the highest opinion of him to begin with, for he is rough in his manner, but I grew to appreciate him and I can now say with deep confidence that he is a man of the most generous spirit. It would burden him more if you did not take advantage of his kindness.”

“How did your opinion of him undergo such a change? I had not thought you capable of truly disliking anyone.”

“Ah, you must thank my new sister for that. She has been dear friends with the man for some years and would share all her stories concerning him.”

He had spent the months following Triss and Sabrina’s engagement entertaining Triss as much as he was able. There had been much to be done in regards to the transfer of the estate from Jaskier to Sabrina, the funeral arrangements and the death dues, handling visits from well-meaning neighbors, and sending out letters to relations. Poor Triss had much time on her hands with Sabrina unavailable, and so Jaskier had spent time with her in an effort to relieve both their spirits.

Asking after Geralt had not been his intention. He had merely been unable to help himself, wishing to get a better, more complete picture of the man he had spent so long condemning.

Triss had been enthused to speak of her friend, and Jaskier had found himself inundated with tale after tale about Geralt’s hard work, his generous spirit, his unassuming desire to help and protect others.

He wondered if Geralt understood just how well he was loved by his friends, or if Geralt would ever know the deep role Triss had played in helping Jaskier to fall in love with him.

Jaskier could admit that from the start he had been drawn to the Witcher’s form and features, that he had desired the man in a… carnal manner. But it had taken him longer to admit the way he had been drawn to Geralt himself, how they had always found one another inches apart, how when he had conversed with him, all else had vanished from his senses.

The whole year he had wondered what might have happened if he had allowed a little generosity into his heart, and been less prideful. Less quick to judge.

“Jaskier?” Essi said, her tone suggesting this was not the first time she had said his name.

“Oh, yes?” He smiled at her and rose, hoping to cover up his introspection. He had always known himself capable of falling hard and fast, it was only that he had never expected to pine unrequitedly as a result of his own folly.

“If you really think Bath will do me good…”

“I do, Essi.” He took her hands in his. “You are not meant for sadness, and I would see you smile again. Go and be entertained, be distracted, indulge yourself, be spoiled. Be a little hedonist for me. And then we shall see about Oxenfurt.”

Essi nodded and then threw her arms about him, hugging him tightly. “I have no words.”

“You have no need of them.” He indulged her and returned her embrace. “We are your family now, Poppet. You always have a home with us.”

He hoped her absence would not trouble Geralt too much. And he did hope that her trip to Bath would do her some good. He wanted to see her happy once more, and moping would only increase her distress.

Ellen would want her to move on.

* * *

Yennefer was surprised to find Geralt on her doorstep. “Need another dragon rescued?” she asked.

“Something like that.”

Yennefer allowed him into her drawing room. “I don’t suppose you’d like tea.”

“No.”

“Well? You are up to something.” She glanced at him as walked idly about the room. “We were disastrous for one another but you must admit that I can sense your moods.”

“Only because I tell you everything whether I want to or not.”

“Well, what is it you don’t want to tell me now?”

Geralt lowered his voice. “This does not leave this room.”

“Geralt. When have I ever shared information you gave me?” She strode up to him. “I had every right to curse you up one side of England and down the other after we parted ways and as you can see, I did not.”

An idea struck her. “This would not, perchance, have something to do with the matter of your two brothers recovering at Lettenhove, would it? Triss has told me of the situation. The leshen hunt did not go as planned.”

Geralt’s face tightened. “I would request a xenovox from you.”

“A xenovox?” For a moment confusion reigned, and then she realized what he intended. “Geralt. No.”

“I have to. If I do not, they will after it again and it will kill them this time. They are my brothers, Yennefer, I cannot allow that.”

“And so going yourself, is that the solution? Geralt it is folly, it is akin to suicide. I had not thought your life so lacking in value you would throw it away on something like this.”

“That is why I want the xenovox. In case I have need of assistance.”

Yennefer composed herself. “Geralt. While what we felt for one another was… a delusion, that does not mean that I feel nothing for you at all. I truly feared for you when I thought the mountain would take you, and I fear for you now. Do not go after a leshen alone.”

“I’ll be fine. Does this mean I can have the xenovox?”

Stubborn, proudful man. Yennefer wished to slap him. She controlled herself. “Yes. I will give you one. But Geralt, you must promise me you will use it. Not at the last moment, not as you lie dying, but before.”

She led him to her study, where she produced one of her xenovoxs and performed the necessary modification spells to attune it before passing it over to him. “Promise me, Geralt.”

The corner of his mouth quirked upwards into a grim half-smile. “I hadn’t thought you’d cared.”

“I should…” Yennefer hesitated. She hated to show vulnerability, except around Tissaia, who had seen the worst of her so often over the years there was no longer any point to charade, and indeed Yennefer had begun to think of the woman as a place of safety in regard to her emotions. “I should like us to be friends, Geralt. Even if we are not what we thought we could be to one another.”

Geralt took the xenovox. “I cannot make promises in my profession, Yen. But I will do my best.” He paused. “I—admire you. I always have. And I was unfair to you. I used you to try and run away from my own problems. To erase them.”

“Have those problems resolved themselves?”

Geralt tucked the xenovox away in a pocket of his armor. “I begin to fear this one never will.”

Curiosity pricked at her, but she did not want to destroy the spun-glass truce that now existed between them. “Be careful,” she said instead.

Geralt bowed, and made her no promise.

* * *

_Eight Months Ago_

Jaskier smiled at Triss as she twisted and turned in front of the full-length mirror. “You will make my poor sister faint at the altar.”

“Are you sure?” Triss smoothed out her skirts.

“If you do not like the dress we can alter it or send for another. There is still time—”

“No, no, I like it.” Triss turned to him, eyes shining. “I only wish for darling Sabrina to like it as well—”

“Sabrina will like you if you walk into the church wearing nothing but a sackcloth,” Jaskier assured her. He caught her hands with his. “You have no idea how happy you are making her, Triss Merigold. Or myself. At last this blasted house will have some sunshine and true warmth to it.”

“You gave her a warm home too, Jaskier,” Triss promised him. “Sabrina loves you dearly.”

“Sometimes I wish she did not love me so much, I fear she puts up with my tempestuous moods and terrible affairs to too great an extent.”

“Oh, not about that countess again, Jaskier, we all know it was a lighthearted thing.” Triss turned to the mirror again and patted her hair. “I do hope the flowers arrive on time…”

“Everything is in order. All the guests have responded.” Jaskier paused. “I… could not help but notice you left a particular name off the list. One that I thought you would take special care to include.”

Triss caught his meaning. “Geralt is still out of England and I do not wish to compel him to make such a treacherous journey back only for my wedding day. Besides, he needs his time away from here.”

Fuck. Did Triss know something? “Is he still melancholy?”

Triss sighed and turned towards the window. “He will not speak of intimate details but I have managed to pry out of him some matters that occurred during the dragon hunt. He and Lady Yennefer went at it with hammer and tongs, apparently. Both deeply wounded the other. He feels a great deal of guilt for having hurt her and refuses to admit just how hurt he was in return, but I know him too well for that—and he forgets that Yennefer mentored me at Aretuza, and I know how biting and cold she can be when she chooses.”

Jaskier fairly gaped at Triss behind her back. He had not been aware that Geralt’s heart was so broken by Yennefer. Had Jaskier been the second choice, then? His head spun with implications and with a hot, sickly feeling in his stomach—one he had never felt before and so it took far too long of a moment to realize what it was.

Envy.

“I am sure that Geralt is attempting to soften the blow since he knows of my connection to and friendship with Yennefer,” Triss went on. She turned back towards Jaskier and he only just managed to wrestle his expression under control in time. “He assures me she did not ruin him but who else has, if not her? He has fled the country, what else could have induced him?”

Jaskier knew, possibly. Dare he give himself such credit?

Geralt had said that he should think Jaskier would be flattered that Geralt had been ruined over him. Jaskier felt no flattery now, only pain behind his eyes and a firm desire to rip something to shreds simply to have the satisfaction of destroying something.

“I hope he will return, if only for your sake,” he managed. “And I hope that your wedding day will still be bright, even if one friend of yours is absent.”

“My wedding day will join me with Sabrina until the day I die,” Triss replied. “That alone makes it the greatest day of my life.”

That evening, Jaskier at last found words to match the tune with which he had been toying for months, as envy crawled up his throat and shame pricked at his spine.

_The fairer sex, they often call it…_

* * *

_Present Day_

Geralt double checked his armor and his weapons.

Eskel and Lambert continued to mend from their wounds, but he could not allow his brothers to risk themselves over the leshen again. It was part and parcel of being a Witcher to know that each hunt might be one’s last, that this might be the day when one grew too slow or too old and the monster was the victor. But if Geralt could spare his brothers that, at least today, then he would be well satisfied.

He had spent the night at Lettenhove once more, questioning Lambert on some final details, and was able to ride out from there in the early morning. Dealing with any sort of monster at night, in the dark, was folly, even for one with a Witcher’s keen eyesight.

From Lettenhove to the area where the leshen dwelt was not far. Lambert had been right to head for Lettenhove when he and Eskel had been forced to flee. Geralt dismounted from Roach early and went on foot thereafter, sacrificing height and power in exchange for silence.

The forest was thick here, thicker than it ought to be. In spite of England’s pride in its great, ancient woods, there should not be such a growth about this particular area, and Geralt knew he drew near to the leshen’s lair.

A clearing of sorts could be glimpsed up ahead through the trees, and Geralt stepped lightly, hand drifting towards his silver sword—when a vine wrapped itself around his ankle.

That was about when things went from acceptable and routine to quite frustrating in the matter of an instant.

It was rather difficult to fight when one was upside down, but Geralt managed it rather well until he could cut himself free. The leshen was a tall, gargantuan creature that managed to look rather like an emaciated man made out of tree limbs and bark, with a great deer skull for a head complete with large antlers. Its eyes glowed a menacing orange and its fingers were nothing more than tapered claws like miniature scythes.

Geralt found, as he had suspected from Eskel and Lambert’s recounting, that there were few points of weakness on the creature through which his sword could penetrate. Both silver and steel were equally effective, or rather ineffective as the case might be, but Geralt was sure he could identify a few weak points—the back of the neck, for example—if he could only reach them.

The leshen dealt him a spectacular blow, ripping through his armor, and Geralt grit his teeth. He could feel the ugly pulse of infection. The leshen had some sort of spores, almost like mushrooms, growing out of parts of its body. They had worked their hardest on Lambert and Eskel, and now they worked on Geralt. Already he could feel himself growing dizzy. His sword felt too heavy and clumsy in his hand.

He must find a way to injure or distract the leshen enough that he could deal that death blow. Igni! He was a fool. No matter what the creature or where it came from, everything burned.

Geralt tried to form the symbol with his fingers, but they refused to cooperate. Fuck. The xenovox—Yennefer—

Spots danced in front of his vision, and he was certain that it was nothing more than a hallucination, but he could have sworn as he sank to his knees that he heard singing.

* * *

If Geralt thought that his leave-taking had gone unnoticed, the man had another idea that was soon about to smack him in the back of the head like a lute.

Jaskier noted the Witcher’s departure and the direction it took, and he knew at once what lay in Geralt’s mind. The man blamed himself for Eskel and Lambert’s condition and felt he ought to have been there. Jaskier recalled Geralt’s actions for Renfri, how he had erased all trace of her from the narrative of Stregobor so that even the man’s infamous death was shrouded in confusion, and how Geralt had torn himself apart when he fell for Jaskier, thinking of it as a betrayal to his promise to never take on a bard.

Geralt’s loyalty to those he loved would get himself killed.

Jaskier took his own horse and followed.

He knew not how he could assist, exactly. Bards did not ordinarily go right into the thick of battle. They were to observe from a distance, or perhaps even stand aside completely if their Witcher deemed the hunt too dangerous for an onlooker. Ellen Daven’s death weighed heavily in the back of Jaskier’s mind as he rode after Geralt. Her fate could be his on this day.

He cared not. He had signed up for danger when he had declared his wish to be a Witcher’s bard, and he would not shrink from that destiny now. Not when Geralt was putting himself in such danger.

This was not about his career, or about immortalizing Geralt’s deeds, although ordinarily he cared deeply about both. This was about the stupid, stubborn man going to walk right into the jaws of death because he had a guilt complex and Jaskier was not here for it.

He left his horse with Roach, copying Geralt’s movements, and followed silently, at a solid distance so not to disturb the fight or let on to Geralt that Jaskier was present.

From behind the shadow of the tree, Jaskier could see all. The fight started off badly for Geralt at once, the leshen a clever foe that kept to the shadows and used the natural plant life to its advantage, but Geralt fought smart and gained even ground—

The leshen got in a blow and swiped its claws painfully directly through Geralt’s armor. Jaskier’s heart leapt into his throat. He could not admire Geralt’s skill with the blade or his tenacity when it was so clear what was at stake, when the Witcher was possibly outmatched.

Geralt sank to his knees, and Jaskier’s entire body shook. He could not watch this, he could not—he must do something.

They said that music soothed the savage beast, did they not? And the leshens had been worshipped at times as minor gods by those who did not know better. Surely that meant that they could be appealed to in some way.

He had his lute with him, as he always did now that his parents were out of the picture. This particular time it was his new elven lute. He spun it around so that it faced front and strummed a few chords.

The leshen loomed over Geralt, claws raised, only to pause as it sensed another presence.

Jaskier’s heart beat wildly in his throat, such that he thought he would choke on it. He continued to strum, slowly forming the chords into a proper song, the one he had been working on lately, the tune and words that would not leave him even if he had no right to sing about the subject.

The leshen appeared not to be quite as hostile, and more confused and curious. Jaskier took a deep breath and stepped out from behind the tree. He kept his voice soft, let the emotion of the piece carry it, rather than attempting to overwhelm the leshen with vocal prowress.

_My boy builds coffins, with hammers and nails… He doesn’t build ships, he has no use for sails…_

Geralt seemed barely conscious. He clutched one hand at his side, blinking against disorientation. Jaskier took a tentative step forward.

The leshen growled. Jaskier retreated, and continued to sing. He had to lull the leshen enough to get to Geralt. There must be something he could do, some way he could aid Geralt, if he could only reach him.

_He doesn’t make tables, dressers or chairs. He can’t carve a whistle, he simply doesn’t care…_

The leshen tilted its head at him, back to curiosity.

_My boy builds coffins for the rich and the poor. Kings and queens have all knocked on his door. Beggars and liars, madmen and thieves—they all come to him ‘cause he’s so eager to please…_

This time, when he stepped forward, the leshen let him. It was listening to the music. Jaskier tried to maintain a steady voice as he took slow, careful steps in Geralt’s direction.

_My boy builds coffins, he makes them all day, and it’s not just for work and it isn’t for play, he’s made one for himself, one for me too, and one of these days he’ll make one for you._

He toyed with the chorus to buy himself time as he saw Geralt began to draw strength from—some impossible place—and rise to his feet. He danced away quickly, drawing the leshen’s attention, as he saw Geralt fumble for something in his pocket.

The thing fell to the ground—a small wooden box of some kind, and something of its nature pricked at Jaskier’s memory—and Geralt grunted in frustration and pain.

Jaskier quickly moved onto the next verse as the leshen began to turn towards the noise, drawing it in again.

_My boy builds coffins for better or worse, some say it’s a blessing, some say it’s a curse. He fits them together in sunshine or rain, each one is unique, no two are the same._

Geralt gave up on the box and seized his sword once more. His fingers slipped through the air as he attempted to make some sort of sigil. Jaskier wished he had a Witcher’s mutations in that moment so that he might be able to employ such sigils and aid Geralt in whatever his plans were, but all he could do was sing and distract and pray that it would be enough.

_My boy builds coffins and I think it’s a shame, that when each one’s been made he can’t see it again. He crafts every one with love and with care, then it’s thrown in the ground, it just isn’t fair._

Jaskier grew a little louder, and forced himself to keep his eyes on the leshen rather than giving Geralt away by glancing in his direction.

_My boy builds coffins, he makes them all day, and it’s just for work and it isn’t for play._

The leshen was alarmingly close to him, and it occurred to Jaskier for the first time that he might very well be the one to not make it out of this, if he was somehow displeasing the creature. He had nothing with which to defend himself.

_He’s made one for himself, one for me, too, and one of these days, he’ll make one for you._

Fire burst into life on the leshen’s body and the creature reared back, screeching in agony. It swiped at Jaskier and he just managed to dodge out of the way as Geralt swung his sword in, hacking at the back of the creature’s neck.

The leshen’s head half came off its body, but not completely, and it swung around to backhand Geralt across the clearing.

Pure instinct drove Jaskier and he dove for the small wooden box that Geralt had dropped. It looked oddly almost like a music box—and that thought was what propelled Jaskier to remember what this was.

He flipped open the lid. “Get over here!” he yelled. He had no earthly idea who was on the other side, be it Triss or Yennefer or some other magical practitioner, but it was the only hope he had.

The air around him crackled and spun, sparks flying from nothing as the fabric of the world ripped and unfolded and Yennefer of Vengerberg stepped through.

“I was in the middle of tea,” she noted idly, and then fire ripped out of her palms, engulfing the leshen.

Jaskier bolted for Geralt as the leshen burned behind him. “Geralt?”

The Witcher blinked slowly at him, as though he were moving in slow motion. “Jask…”

“We must get you home to Triss.” Behind him he could smell charred wood. “You have the same infection as…”

He paused.

Out of Geralt’s armor, in the cuts the leshen had made, there now oozed a horrible sort of yellow and black bile. For a moment he thought it the poison, but then he saw how Geralt’s chest contracted fiercely with each inhale and the poison did not so much ooze out as be forced out, as though it were being actively secreted.

Geralt had extra mutations, it was why his hair was white—from the trauma and shock of them. His body was expelling the poison, pushing it out, rejecting it.

Well no wonder the ridiculous man had thought that he could take on the leshen by himself, with such biological tools as these at his disposal. Jaskier wanted to shake him mightily for his foolhardiness, but then, he had just played a song for a leshen with no armor, no weapon, and no second chances, so he could hardly be placed in a position to judge.

The cloudy look in Geralt’s eyes cleared as the poison was expelled, but he continued to blink slowly up at Jaskier, as if it meant something.

“We must get you home.” Jaskier could not have said why his voice was so soft. “You still have those rather deep lacerations. Blood loss is no small thing, even for a Witcher.”

“Hmm.” This time it felt less like Geralt was being purposefully frustrating and more like that was all he was capable of saying.

“Well.” For the first time since he had met her, Jaskier saw Yennefer as less than perfectly put together. Her hair was disheveled and a bead of sweat slid down from her forehead to her temple. “That was certainly an exercise. I shall have need of Triss anyhow in cleansing this section of the woods so I shall portal you to Lettenhove.”

“Are you all right?”

Yennefer turned to look back on the smoldering remains of the leshen. “This creature is not merely the body you see before you. It injects itself like a disease into the land around it. I fought not only this form but its very spirit to burn it and purge it from this place, and there is still more burning to do. But I will be well.”

Jaskier truly understood the depth of Yennefer’s power in that moment. Who could possibly blame Geralt for falling for her if he had glimpsed this power for himself? In spite of her dishevelment, in that moment she looked more than human, and Jaskier could now see why so many looked at her with something akin to worship in their eyes.

Yennefer created another portal.

“Roach,” Geralt muttered.

“Yes, yes, we’ll come back for your horse, you ridiculous Witcher,” Jaskier snapped in return. “Let us first work on the very pressing subject of preventing you from dying, shall we?”

Lettenhove appeared to them through the portal, and together Yennefer and Jaskier helped Geralt through. Jaskier’s hand pressed against the claw marks in Geralt’s side, the blood and bile squishing up between his fingers, and swallowed down his fear.

Geralt would make it. It would all be well. He had to believe that.

* * *

At first, Geralt was certain that his body had not succeeded in purging itself of all the poison and that he was indeed still hallucinating.

As Jaskier continued to fuss over him, however, and tied his bandages annoyingly tightly and rubbed chamomile on his bruises, the smell not unpleasant or overwhelming to his sensitive nose but certainly unmistakable, Geralt realized that no, this was all quite real. He was in Lettenhove, and Jaskier was tending to him.

Yennefer had taken them by portal directly to Jaskier’s bedroom, since it was decided between her and the bard that Eskel and Lambert knowing of Geralt’s near miss would only serve to upset them and rile them into anger. Keeping Geralt in Jaskier’s rooms would ensure privacy.

Triss was then fetched, and she went with Yennefer to help finish the cleansing of the forest. Yen would burn, and Triss would regrow.

Jaskier grumbled to himself mightily as he cleaned Geralt’s wounds, prepared and applied the bandages, and ordered a bath to be drawn.

“Spit it out, Jaskier.”

The bard glared at him. “I have often wondered about the state of your intellect, Geralt, but never have I so clearly seen the lack of it demonstrated as I did today.”

Geralt propped himself up and then regretted it mightily, wincing. Thankfully the mutations had done their job and pushed the poison out of him but the leshen’s claw marks still went deep. “I ought to say the same to you. You went in without preparation, without a weapon—”

“And I saved your life. You are most welcome.”

“I couldn’t protect you.” The fear burned in his gut. “If the leshen had gotten to you I could not have stopped it.”

“We did not study only the madrigal at Oxenfurt, Geralt. I know the dangers. And even if I had been blind to them, Ellen Daven serves as quite the fresh memory.” Jaskier aided Geralt in propping himself up on some pillows.

Geralt did not ordinarily give a flying rat’s ass when it came to matters of propriety so long as common sense was placed in front of it. If he was in pursuit of a hunt or seeking to give aid and someone decided he had broken one of the hundreds of unspoken rules of society in the process, who was he to care about it?

The waters were even murkier when it came to members of the same sex, once one’s fluid sexuality was thrown into the mix. Again, ordinarily Geralt did not care. He was in need of bandaging, whether he wished to admit it or not, and Jaskier was capable of providing such basic aid as Geralt required. If someone did find out and wagged their tongue, who cared?

Except he did give a care. Very much so.

The last thing Jaskier would want, surely, would be for some gossiping servant or other bored person to discover them in such a state, Jaskier only in his trousers and chemise, the sleeves pushed up and the shirt itself falling open, his hair completely rumpled from running his fingers through it, and Geralt himself completely shirtless so that Jaskier could apply the salve and bandages to his wounds. People would talk, for people were bored and restless creatures by nature, and Geralt couldn’t stand the idea of—that Jaskier would—

He didn’t want to hurt him. Even inadvertently.

“And you still want this life?” Geralt paused. “You’re… talented.”

“Ah, ah, careful, you haven’t been under the effect of hallucinogens from the poison so anything you say I might be inclined to take as truth.”

Geralt glared at him. Jaskier laughed.

“Jaskier. I’m serious. You could take up a post that would… not put your life in danger.”

“And suffer from an excess of boredom for the rest of my life? No thank you, Geralt.” Jaskier’s voice quieted. “I am no warrior. Today is proof enough of that. I know the danger my life may be placed in. And I am aware that even if my life were spared because I stayed behind for safety’s sake, my partner might well face the end. I would lose a companion for whom I cared, platonically or romantically. And that is never an easy thing. But I would rather face that danger and live a life worth telling, help to create and spread stories rather than simply hearing about them—instead of sitting at some convenient university post or playing to please the whims and caprices of the rich. I would rather have what is noble and true.”

Geralt was almost certain that Jaskier could hear the drumming of his heart, even with a Witcher’s slower pulse. He blinked slowly, and knew he was staring, at the way the candles caught in Jaskier’s hair and the water on his forearms and the way the shadows caught in the hollow of his throat, but could not look away.

Jaskier had grown close to Eskel, cheering the man up as he recovered. Geralt could not be selfish.

“Eskel is… some would say the best of us. He managed to retain his cheery disposition. But he’s—as noble a Witcher as you could ask for.”

“Well, I have no doubt of that. You would not call a man brother if he did not deserve the title. Up you get, you’re absolutely covered in mud and while we must be careful of the bandages I see no reason to force you to sleep in filth all night.”

Geralt managed to hold in a grunt of pain as Jaskier helped him to his feet and then aided him to where the servants had drawn hot water into the tub for a bath. It was a good thing he and Jaskier were of a height, for it ensured the tub was large enough for Geralt to sink into it. He recalled the few days Jaskier had worn his clothes at Netherfield, and Geralt’s fingers clenched around the rim of the tub.

The heat of the water soothed him, at least, if nothing else. Jaskier scattered herbs along the top, for healing purposes—Geralt recognized their various scents. They were to relax muscles, soothe the mind and give strength.

“Did Triss tell you what to put in?” His curiosity overrode his aim to keep distance.

Jaskier snorted. “Ah, no, actually. I studied up on herbs and… all the rest, just in case. I know that we’re no longer in the medieval period and there are quite often magical practitioners or doctors about to provide assistance—but I always wanted to be prepared, in case the worst should happen. I learned quite a lot at Oxenfurt, and Sabrina has kindly assisted me in expanding my education.”

“Hmm.”

Admirable. He would not have thought that a bard, any bard, would think of such things. Bards were supposed to be the storytellers, they were not a Witcher’s healer or assistant.

“But of course, I forgot.” Jaskier winked at him as he tossed a handful of herbs into the bath with a flourish. “You do not have the highest opinion of bards.” His expression gentled. “And none could blame you.”

Geralt sank deeper into the water, as if that could possibly save him. Jaskier squawked in indignation over the bandages. “I… did not feel the need for a bard. Marx was… I did not trust him. But I would have disliked anyone Vesemir tried to pair with me.”

“You planned to sing your own ballads?” Jaskier’s smirk was warm.

“More that I was young and thought I knew everything, as all young people do. I had no need of anyone, and the last thing I wanted was someone needing me.”

“And yet… here we are.”

Geralt knew that Jaskier referred not to himself, but to Ciri, to Eskel and Lambert, to the community, to Yennefer and Triss. Jasker could not possibly have need of Geralt, nor could he want him.

Jaskier’s fingers trailed lightly over the surface of the water, and he hissed in surprise. “I heard Witchers can withstand higher temperatures but this is monstrous. I would boil like a lobster if I fell in.”

“You would not.”

“Indeed, I should.”

Geralt swallowed. “Were you… the song, for the leshen. What was that?”

Jaskier colored. “Ah, it was—a rather morose song, there is no need to repeat it. If you wanted me to I could always write you something more catching to the ear for this whole matter. Something to encourage people to look beyond that one particular facial expression you—yes, that’s the one!”

Geralt scowled at him.

“I could make you up a whole ballad.” Jaskier cleared his throat. “Toss a coin to your—ah!”

Geralt splashed him with the water. Jaskier danced backwards out of the way, his laughter ringing out loud and clear.

It reminded Geralt painfully of that one disastrous dinner at Cintra, where he had joined Jaskier at the pianoforte. For the first time in months he had given himself permission to hope, to reach—and now, again, with Jaskier gazing at him softly, a lopsided smile on his face—Geralt could not let himself give in, dared not allow himself to hope this time—

A dark vulnerability flickered for a moment in Jaskier’s eyes and when he next spoke, his voice was low and roughened around the edges. “It was a song I did not intend for you or anyone else to hear, if you must know. I ought not to have written it.”

“Why not?”

Jaskier seated himself on the edge of the tub, his fingers trailing along the water once more. This time he did not object to the heat of it. “I have had much time, over the past year, to give a great deal of thought to the lot of a Witcher. The tragedy you confided to me, and hearing from Triss the many stories of your hunts, reminded me of the risks that a Witcher takes and the price that Witchers, and those in their lives, can at times pay. Even in such civilized… or perhaps civilized is too kind of a word, given that we are still too indulgent in our taste for war… even in such _settled_ times as ours, when Witchers have a greater chance of living to an old age… there is still danger.”

Geralt watched Jaskier’s fingers trail in the water, observed the spattered blood on his chemise—Geralt’s blood—the deepened lines on his face. The depth and sadness that Jaskier took such pains to hide, that he covered with jests and wild tales, the understanding that Geralt had once thought the man lacked.

“I… wrote a song on the subject,” Jaskier admitted, after the silence had stretched to the point where Geralt began to wonder if he ought to break with tradition and be the one to end it. “On the nature of Witchers. But as I have no partnership with one and as it was… influenced so heavily by your particular history… it was not fit for performance.”

Geralt swallowed. “Granted I was only half-conscious at the time. But I enjoyed what I heard.”

“I was flat for half of it, Geralt, I can assure you that my performance there was far from my best, I was staring death in the face—”

“And you remained calm,” Geralt replied. “It was admirable.”

“—and I—what? Do come again, I could have sworn you told me that my behavior was admirable.”

“It was.”

Jaskier gazed at him for another long moment, saying nothing, until at last he spoke in a voice that sounded rather tight. “If you would—if you wish, I could show the lyrics to you. If you truly want to know the song.”

“Why would I read it when I could hear it?” Geralt replied.

“That eager to mock my singing once more?” Jaskier’s words were in jest but his voice was too soft, too fond, it took the shape of an entirely different creature and the way Jaskier’s lips stayed ever so slightly parted when he had finished speaking drove Geralt to the edge of madness.

“Any mocking I did was in the attempt to…” Geralt faltered for the proper word. “…express admiration.”

“I was under the impression I was a distraction.”

“You are distracting. You are not a distraction.”

“A subtle distinction.”

“An important one.”

He had never before seen Jaskier so still, so self-contained. The man was forever a whirlwind, and yet now it was as though the breeze that constantly buffeted him at last fell still. Geralt was reminded of their one dance together, how he had been senseless to all in the room—through sight, through sound, through smell—everything vanished except for Jaskier.

There was a part of Geralt that screamed like a banshee that this was folly, that he was only setting himself up for another chance to dash his heart upon the rocks, and yet—he could not tear himself away from Jaskier’s soft gaze, from the sensation that perhaps he was near falling off a cliff not to crash to earth but rather to fly.

“You… seemed fond of the lute.”

“Ah. Yes. The—I still have no idea from whom it came. I did ask Eskel about it, you know, since it seems to be in accordance with his nature but he assured me he would not have presumed to such a thing. I dared not ask Lambert.” Jaskier let loose a small laugh, but when it was done he looked away, as if turning his gaze back to Geralt would be too much in that moment.

A voice in his head that sounded rather a lot like Yennefer whispered _tell him, tell him, give into hope and tell him you sent it._

“Jaskier.”

The bard looked up at him, eyes so very blue, and Geralt could pick up easily, too easily, his stampeding heart.

He could reach the bard from here. His hand could close over Jaskier’s and he could feel the beat of that heart for himself, could pass his fingers over the intimate skin of his inner wrist, could use such a touch to pull himself closer—

A knock sounded at the door and Jaskier fell off the tub onto the floor, upending himself and whatever moment had just now existed.

Geralt curled his fingers back. It was for the best.

* * *

“Julian?” It was Sabrina.

He had never before disliked his sister and yet now he wanted dearly to strangle her. “Geralt is bathing,” he blurted out, like a fool.

The door opened and Sabrina half-entered. The expression on her face was the definition of unimpressed. “Ought I to fear for your honor?”

“Ah… has Triss returned?”

Sabrina sighed. “I came only to inform you a letter has arrived for you, from Bath. It appears the sender paid the expense to have it delivered with great speed.”

“It must be from Essi.” That perked Jaskier up greatly, even though he could not completely dispel the deep frustration he felt at the interruption.

Geralt had been about to speak of something, Jaskier had been sure of it. Did he know who had sent Jaskier the lute? Had Geralt himself been the sender? A dozen birds beat their wings against his ribcage and he could hardly breathe at the supposition. That could not possibly be the truth, could it?

The way Geralt had looked at him… Jaskier had been unable to breathe in all the time he sat there, forcing himself to gaze only at the Witcher’s face. Not that there was quite as much to see as one would expect, with most of Geralt submerged beneath the water and a good part of him bandaged up, a constant visual reminder of what Jaskier had almost lost.

Still, it was the most intimate he had ever been with the man, and the most intimate he had been with someone without proceeding further to still more intimate matters. The temptation to continue to smooth his fingers over the wrappings even after he had finished bandaging the marks had been great, and it had felt something akin to resisting a magnet to pull away.

Now Sabrina interrupted them and Jaskier feared he would never get the answer to his question, that Geralt would retreat and he would never know if the hope inside of him was unfounded.

Sabrina passed him the letter and retreated once more. Behind him Jaskier could hear Geralt slowly and carefully emerging from the water. He kept his back firmly to the tub. For a man of Geralt’s physical strength and agility to be reduced to slow, halting movements in order to be mindful of a wound… it must be a special form of humiliation. Jaskier occupied himself instead with reading Essi’s letter. It had only been a week since Essi had arrived in Bath, and already she was corresponding—hopefully it was to write of her spirits being improved.

“Let me know if you need assistance,” he called behind him.

“Hmm.”

Of course a grunt should be his only answer. Jaskier tried valiantly not to think of what must surely be on display but a few feet behind him and forced himself to think only of Essi’s words.

…Essi’s horrible, devastating—terrible—

Jaskier found himself making a small noise like a wounded animal. Dread crashed into his stomach with the speed and might of lightning.

Moving with care, Geralt came into his view. He had dressed himself in his trousers and undershirt, the latter hanging loose so that it would not disturb his bandages.

Jaskier had not the slightest inclination what sort of expression held court on his face at the moment, but it must have been a grand one for Geralt looked as though he half-expected Jaskier to faint on him.

“What is it?” Geralt asked. His tone was one of alarm.

How to tell him? There was nothing for it but the bare truth.

“The worst,” Jaskier admitted. His eyes stung, but not only with sadness. The majority of it was shame over himself. “Essi confided her work to one who was—she asked for advice of—of Valdo Marx.”

Geralt’s hands clenched into fists.

“They had met previously, in Oxenfurt for Ellen’s funeral, and reunited in Bath. By his design or by happenstance, I know not. He has taken her work—stolen it—and is printing it as his own.”

Geralt’s cat eyes narrowed to slits. “This is my fault.”

“No.” Jaskier shook his head. “No, this fault is mine. If I had told everyone that Marx had lied to us, that he had slandered you—”

“No, if I had told the truth—”

“You were only protecting someone you loved. I was guided by my pride. And now…”

Geralt made an aborted movement with his arm, as if he had made to reach out for Jaskier before thinking better of it. “Is there anything to be done?”

“What can be done? If only I had asked her for the name—but all I knew was that she had shown it to another bard for his review of it.” Jaskier’s fingers twisted over and against one another. “He has her writings, the only copy, and we know not where he fled with them. She is nameless, without family, without education, entirely self-taught. Who can speak for her? Who can provide proof that the lines are hers alone?”

“Ciri has read her work—”

“I will not, and Miss Daven will not, drag Cirilla into this matter, especially when she has only just been through so much. No.” Jaskier wiped at his eyes. “I ought to have said something, to make his character clear, and I did not. I must—I must do what I can to comfort her and see about setting this right. Somehow.”

“Then I will leave you.” Geralt’s tone was grave. “I am sorry I can offer you no better comfort.”

“You must rest.”

“I can rest just as well in a bedroom besides yours. You have need of it.” Geralt crossed to him. “Yennefer will return shortly with Triss. I’ll see to it you’re not disturbed by them.”

Jaskier nodded. He did not trust his voice.

Geralt drew in a breath, as if he might say more—and then only hummed as was his custom, and departed silently from the room.

Jaskier sank down onto the bed and gave himself over to emotion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Jaskier sings is "My Boy Builds Coffins" by Florence + the Machine. Is this accurate to Regency times? No. But is it fitting and was I eager to avoid writing my own song? Yes.


	15. Chapter 15

Yennefer’s hands ached as she finished the last of the fire. She had never had to exert her magic to such a degree before. Of course she had always known she was capable of something great, something powerful. Her whole life had been a study in holding herself back from such extremes, and sometimes failing.

But to at last unleash it… it had been such a relief, but also such a drain.

Triss worked herself no less diligently. Her task was smaller in appearance than Yennefer’s and less flashy, to be sure, but it was equally as important. As Yennefer burned and purged, Triss would coax new growth and the return of life so that the forest would remain and balance could be maintained.

They returned to Lettenhove well after dark, with the forest silent of monsters and filled with new flowers and young saplings. Poor Triss was dead on her feet and Yennefer was obliged to carry her up to her wife, so that Sabrina might take over the care of her.

Yennefer and Sabrina had never quite got on. When she had heard the news that Triss, her darling sweet young Triss, was to be married to cold Miss Sabrina Pankratz, she had just about lost her mind. How could Triss ever be happy married to such a woman?

Yet, when she handed Triss off, quite literally, to her spouse, Sabrina took her wife with such a look of concern and soft affection that Yennefer found a spike of jealousy enter her heart. She had not known Sabrina to be capable of such tender looks and loving care.

She departed as soon as she was able, but she could not go home. She went, rather, to Aretuza.

Tissaia was not in her office, but rather walking the grounds, ensuring that all magical wards were in place and no servant or student had left things lying carelessly.

“Did you know?” Yennefer asked her.

Tissaia looked up. “Yenna. You’re shaking.”

“Oh.” Yennefer looked down at her aching hands. “It is nothing, merely a great deal of magic I used today, I need only rest.”

Tissaia was not the sort to be easily dissuaded or to have her concerns waved aside. She took Yennefer’s hands in hers and examined hem for herself, then gently pressed her fingertips to Yennefer’s jaw, turning her face back and forth so that she might see her at every angle.

“You exerted yourself greatly. And you smell of smoke.”

Yennefer briefly told her of the leshen. “It was handled quite neatly by Triss and myself. Her work was admirable. You ought to be proud.”

“I am proud. You ought to be as well, for you were her tutor.” Tissaia’s fingertips were still at Yennfer’s jawline. The older woman released her after a moment’s pause, as though she had only just then realized that she must. “You must rest. Your hands shake and your eyes are too bright. Your energy is dimmed.”

“The leshen’s power was great. It had sunk deep into the land. Geralt nearly beheaded it and yet it still stood. I was glad he had given himself means to send for me. But I assure you, Tissaia…” The word was still so new upon her lips, it felt like something more than a simple name, and each time she said it, Tissaia would grow still. “…I am quite well.”

Tissaia clucked her tongue. “Not when the fire of the fight goes out of you at last, you will not.” She offered up her arm.

Yennefer took it, if only to remain in the spirit of friendship. She had no need of it, she was quite well—

Her legs gave out and buckled, and she nearly fell to the ground. Tissaia’s other arm came around neatly to grasp her waist and keep her standing.

“There we are.” Tissaia guided Yennefer’s head to nestle on her shoulder. “Oh, Yenna. Can you walk?”

“If… if you aid me.” Her pride was deeply wounded, but at least there were none about to see, save for one. She supposed she could humble herself a trifle, in front of Tissaia.

“Very well.” Tissaia led her with care back into the house and through the rooms. Yennefer found her vision to be slightly blurred at moments, and so it was that she did not realize where they were headed until they reached a set of unfamiliar rooms.

It was a pleasing set of rooms, with a large four poster bed and a color scheme of dark blues and greens, powerful yet calm enough to allow the mind to quiet for sleep. The dark jewel tones matched those favored by Tissaia for her outfits, and the restrained, slightly old-fashioned taste in the furniture rather matched the woman’s character.

Yennefer realized belatedly that she was in Tissaia’s private quarters.

She had never been in this area of Aretuza before. Tissaia’s quarters were the sanctum sanctorum, the place where the headmistress retreated and none dared to disturb her.

Tissaia helped Yennefer to seat herself in the comfortable, high-backed chair that was placed in front of the fireplace. The sorceress clapped her hands, and a fire sprang up in the hearth. “Give me your hands.”

“I will be fine,” Yennefer protested. “Do not exert yourself for my sake.”

All magic had a price, an equal exchange—you had to give in order to receive. Tissaia was not conjuring strength and fire out of thin air, and Yennefer did not wish for Tissaia to give of herself when it was such a small matter.

Tissaia smoothed her fingers over Yennefer’s aching, scorched palms. “I decide when to exert myself, and for whom.”

Healing magic was the most difficult, and so as a rule most magical practitioners would use their magic over time and in sparing stages, rather than all at once and risking too much. Yennefer could feel her strength returning, for the better part at least, the ache in her bones subsiding, but the marks on her hands from the fire remained.

“I think it best we rely on traditional medicine,” Tissaia announced. Medical supplies floated across the room. “And I will employ magic tomorrow.”

“There is no need—”

“Yenna. Please. Allow me.”

Tissaia so rarely asked for anything in such a manner, and after so many years of fighting her tooth and claw, Yennefer could not find the heart to refuse her.

Tissaia’s fingers smoothed over Yennefer’s palms, pressing salve onto the worst parts of the burns. She worked patiently, with the ease and smoothness of many years of practice. It reminded Yennefer of another, one who focused her magic almost entirely on the healing arts as well.

“Did you know, back when I was in the midst of my foolish attempt to marry off Istredd and Triss?”

“What is it you think I knew?” Tissaia replied. She began to wrap the bandages around Yennefer’s hands, taking care not to neglect her aching fingers.

“That Triss and Sabrina Pankratz were entangled. That their… hearts were for one another.”

“I knew nothing. I only suspected. I had heard that Miss Pankratz—or Mrs. Pankratz now I ought to say, you girls grow up so quickly and it is difficult to keep track of you all—had danced with Miss Merigold twice at Pavetta Rhiannon’s ball where they first met. Mrs. Pankratz was not one given to dancing more than once with anybody, and nor should she be if she did not want to earn herself a reputation as a flirt. I knew that she and Miss Merigold had not the benefit of a prior acquaintance, for Mrs. Pankratz had already graduated from Aretuza when Miss Merigold joined us, and so it could not be for the want of catching up as old school mates.”

Tissaia finished the bandages on one hand, smoothing her thumbs across the back of Yennefer’s hand before turning to the other. “When I attended your ball I observed them most closely. I perceived that while you were distracted employing Istredd and Miss Merigold to speak to one another, Mrs. Pankratz had a look upon her face I had only seen a few times prior—those times when you and she were in competition on a test and she was afraid she was in danger of failing to you. I knew then that she was not angered at your interruptions, but afraid that your work would undo her own wooing of Miss Merigold. She had something to lose.”

“I so rarely lost to her in school,” Yennefer noted. “She was so capable.”

“Capable, yes. But she had less magic to gain control over. And she had not quite the same scars as you. Sabrina Pankratz had a childhood learning control. It was no wonder she had the leg up on you in your studies. But the time for such comparisons has long passed. She has given up sorcery in favor of the life of a gentlewoman, as is her right. And we have all seen what sort of power you can display.”

Tissaia tightened the bandage and Yennefer hissed involuntarily against the sting as it pulled at the skin.

“My apologies.” Tissaia tied the bandage off. “I know I am not used to… employing gentleness.”

“I know.” Yennefer paused. Her heart seemed to beat in her throat. “But…”

Tissaia began to pull her fingers away, and Yennefer felt suddenly that the loss would be too great.

“Do not stop.”

Tissaia looked up at her, surprise in her eyes. The very air seemed to hush, and Yennefer wondered when Tissaia had come to take such care with her, to try and employ that gentleness even if it was not her habit.

“Please?” she added.

Tissaia looked down and said nothing, but obligingly smoothed her fingers over Yennefer’s hand once more. “I did not—I could not tell you, for I had only my observations, and it was not my place to reveal the hearts of others. I knew also of Istredd’s… tender feelings towards you, feelings I knew he had harbored for many years, and so even without the presence of Sabrina Pankratz, I knew your endeavors to be doomed from the start.”

“I used him,” Yennefer whispered. “I did not mean to.”

“No, you did not. He was a plaything to you, though, Yenna.”

“Have I really been so hurtful?”

“Not with intention. I know you capable of great compassion and care, and I know that was part of what you hoped would guide your actions. I thought—indeed I thought that once Istredd’s feelings were known to you, you would accept him.”

“Accept him? He was no fit for me.”

An odd look was in Tissaia’s eyes. “I know. But neither was Geralt of Rivia, and you went with him anyhow.”

“I should walk all over Istredd’s back if I were his wife. I wish for a challenge. I thought Geralt would be that challenge.” Yennefer swallowed. “The way that Sabrina looked at Triss tonight—I found myself envious. Envious! Of Sabrina Pankratz! And yet I was. And of Triss as well. I wanted to be looked at in such a manner. I wanted to have someone to look at that way.”

She looked up. “And yet I feel like a foolish girl. I have power and magic, and yet I want love? As though I am still nothing more than a fourteen-year-old dreaming of some valiant knight on a steed?”

“We all want love, Yenna.”

“You do not. I admired you so much for that, how you seemed to need no one.”

Tissaia stood. “I… you ought to sleep, Yenna. The day has taken its toll on you. Please take the use of my bed.”

Yennefer stared after her. “And where will you sleep?”

Tissaia paused. Her face was in shadow. “I will not be sleeping tonight.”

She made to leave, and Yennefer’s heart constricted. “And what, am I to have no goodnight kiss?”

Tissaia looked back at her. “You remain a trial to me.”

“I excel at it.”

Tissaia crossed back to her, and for a wild moment, Yennefer was seized by the desire to have Tissaia press her mouth to hers, to swipe the breath right out from between Tissaia’s lips.

Instead, Tissais brushed a lock of hair back from Yennefer’s face and tilted her chin up to kiss her forehead. “Will you rest now, you impossible woman?”

“You said that it was difficult for you to follow our changes as we went from your students on to something new,” Yennefer noted. “Yet you have always addressed me the same.”

“Now, that I know to be a falsehood.” Tissaia went to the door. “I never called you Yenna until you returned.”

There was something significant in that, but Yennefer did not know what it was.

The sensation of Tissaia’s lips on her forehead, and the ghost of her fingers on Yennefer’s hands, burned against her skin long into the night.

* * *

Sabrina sat up in bed reading as Triss slid in beside her. Without taking her eyes from the page she lifted her arm so that Triss might slide underneath it and rest her head on her wife’s shoulder, her own arm across Sabrina’s lap.

“Geralt has departed,” Triss said. “Some business in Bath.”

“Mm.” Sabrina turned a page.

“My darling, has Jaskier confided in you any affairs of his heart recently?”

“Recently? No. He had the lark about the countess but that is all.”

A long pause followed. Sabrina continued to read.

“It is only that I worry for him.” Triss paused briefly before adding, “And Geralt.”

“Why should you worry?”

Triss was silent, and Sabrina at last set her book down on the side table. “My sweet, is something troubling you?”

“Geralt and Jaskier spoke privately, and Geralt has gone out of town again. I worry they quarreled.”

“Ah, well, I can set that to rights. Julian’s concerns are all for Miss Daven.”

Triss did not seem satisfied with this answer. Sabrina smoothed her thumb over the crease in her wife’s forehead. “How can I ease your burdens, my sweet? You worry overmuch about your friends, I fear.”

“It is my nature.” Triss changed the subject. “But since you do bring it up, I recall it has been some time since we last were in bed together…”

It was true. In taking turns to look after Eskel and Lambert, Sabrina had seen little of her wife at night.

“Never let it be said I am not a dutiful wife,” Sabrina noted, as Triss’ lips found her neck and Triss’ hand, formerly in Sabrina’s lap, found a much more intimate place.

There was no more talk of Jaskier and Geralt, or indeed talk of anything, for the rest of the night.

* * *

Geralt dearly did not want to be doing this. But he had no choice in the matter. How else was he to locate his quarry?

He knocked politely on Yennefer’s front door and did his best not to hold his breath until it was opened.

As before, he was shown into the drawing room, where Yennefer greeted him with politeness. “Another xenovox?”

“Something more.” Geralt forced himself to stay still, not to shift his weight and reveal his state of agitation. “There is a young bard, a girl with no connections or money, who has had her work stolen by another. I know the man, and could have exposed him for the cad he was, but I spared him to protect someone else. Now she is to suffer for it. I need to find him.”

“Now, there is a tale in that.” Yennefer arched an elegant eyebrow. “I had not thought you moved on from me so soon. Who is this girl?”

“She is a _girl,_ Yen. Twenty or so. Her sister was a classmate to Jaskier, and he sees her as a sister. I have no designs on her.”

“It would not be the first time a man of older years fell for a woman barely deserving of the name.”

“I am not one of those men, Yen. Don’t mock me.”

Yennefer sighed and stared out of her impressively large front window. “Someday it will please me to see you motivated by something other than guilt.”

“How does that matter?”

Yennefer’s head snapped back to him. “Guilt nearly killed you yesterday afternoon. And do not give me your excuses, Geralt. I saw the blood and the poison, the way the leshen threw you like a rag doll. The look upon your bard’s face—”

“He is not my bard.” Geralt realized too late the passion with which he spoke and cleared his throat. “He is… not anyone’s bard.”

“He seemed very much like yours.”

Geralt forced himself to hold her gaze. He would not look away, would not back down. To do so would admit defeat.

Yes, Jaskier had risked his life against the leshen by distracting it, and yes, he had seemed quite alarmed when inspecting the depth of Geralt’s wounds. But Jaskier was a good-hearted man. His compassion did not indicate a special affection.

“You went out of guilt over your brothers,” Yennefer said. “And now, hardly able to stand before me, you seek to go out again, over guilt.”

“I am well enough for this.”

“Are you? Does Jaskier know you have quit your recovery bed?”

“Jaskier cannot know—no one can know what I am doing. You must take the credit.”

“I must—credit for what!?”

“For bringing this man to justice and restoring the girl’s honor.”

Yennefer scoffed. “Geralt. I am not your mistress, you cannot order me about—”

“I am not ordering you, Yen, I am pleading with you!”

Yennefer paused, both eyebrows raised now, and Geralt at last found his strength failed him and he was obliged to be seated.

“This will not cost my physical strength or skill. I need only that you portal me to wherever the rat is hid. I will do the rest. I have friends and funds, and I have the truth. Please, Yen, she is only twenty and she lost her only family. She wishes to be a bard and if he steals this from her it is all over. I have to help her.”

“I will not enable your guilt complex.”

“Damn it, Yen! If not for that, then—” His mouth filled with sourness and he grit his teeth. “For love, then.”

Yennefer stared at him. “Then you do love the girl?”

“Not—she is—Jaskier sees her as family. And he believes what has transpired to be his fault.”

Yennefer inhaled sharply, and Geralt knew that at last, the final details of the picture became clear to her. “He is your bard, then.”

“He is no one’s bard.”

“But you are his Witcher.”

Holding her gaze then was the hardest thing he had done since he had left England. “If he would have me. Yes. Even if he never has me… yes.”

“He was what you ran from. He was why you wanted me.”

“Yes.”

Yennefer turned away, and for a moment all was silent. He could hear her heartbeat, and it was steady. Her scent held an edge of melancholy, but no more so than it usually did in his presence.

At last she turned back to him. “I take it Jaskier is also the reason you do not wish to take the credit in this.”

“Yes.”

“Very well. I will aid you. For the sake of the girl. But Geralt—I know what I saw on his face when you fell. I know the way that he held you. I do not see why you should not tell him.”

Geralt knew he ought not to say it, but Yennefer of Vengerberg always had the talent for compelling him to say the things he had no intention of voicing.

“Because I already proposed marriage to him last year and he refused me.”

Yennefer’s mouth dropped completely open.

* * *

Jaskier wrote to Essi at once, and informed her that she ought to stay in Bath. While the instinct to have her return to Lettenhove for comfort and affirmation was strong, he knew it would do little good to have her withdraw from society. No, they must find a way to fight this, and do so quickly.

The chief concern was to locate Marx, wherever he had scuttled off, so that he could be prevented from publishing Essi’s collection as his own. But how to go about it? Jaskier had not the slightest idea.

He had not rested, in spite of Geralt’s consideration in finding another room to sleep. Instead Jaskier had occupied himself all the night with writing to every possible contact he had in Oxenfurt, applying to them for aid and information. The moment Marx published the works it would become more difficult to prove that Essi had penned them. Time was of the essence.

All the others were aware that something of a distressing nature had occurred. Geralt was the only one who knew the truth—for how could Jaskier explain Essi’s part without explaining the whole? How could he keep the shame and frustration out of his voice, his face, his manner?

Geralt himself had departed from Lettenhove early in the morning, long before Jaskier, exhausted, came down to breakfast. He must have thought that Jaskier would require space, when in actuality the last thing Jaskier wished was for Geralt to leave him.

His hands burned with the memory of how they had pressed against Geralt’s skin. In the heat of the moment he had not given much thought to things such as attraction. Geralt had been injured, bleeding, and Jaskier had first and foremost concerned himself with that.

Now, however, with nothing to do but worry over Essi and endeavor to write to such Oxenfurt contacts as he could, his mind distracted him with the vivid recollection of those touches. It drove him close to madness, overrode his reason, and reminded him forcefully that his ache for Geralt had not diminished, but only grown with time.

What could have transpired, if Sabrina had not knocked on the door? Anything? Something they would both regret?

It was too late for such things now. Geralt would not want anything to do with Marx, and so until Jaskier sorted this mess out he doubted he would see the Witcher again. And at that time—who knew? Geralt had shown a soft disposition towards Essi. Perhaps now with her distress he was reminded of that and would turn his attention to her. After all, she was not the one who had turned him down haughtily.

Triss and Sabrina were well aware of his struggle with something, but they knew not about Essi either. Both endeavored to assist him in their own way, Triss by placing fresh flowers in his rooms and plying him with his favorite meals, Sabrina by giving him space and finding excuses to send him on errands that would give take him into the countryside, for she knew his love of walking.

Eskel was quite kind as well, and offered himself up as a humble ear if Jaskier ever had need of a friend in whom to confide. Jaskier could easily imagine the man as the confidant of his brothers at Kaer Morhen, easing them all with jests and fine humor.

He waited to hear from those at Oxenfurt, unsure if he ought to go to Bath to see Essi in person and comfort her or if he should rather go to the university itself and begin banging down doors, caught in such a web of indecision until—

The girl herself turned up at his front door.

“Essi?” Jaskier bolted for her and seized her hands, forgetting all about propriety. “Essi! What has happened? Why are you—did he—”

Her eyes shown and her cheeks were flushed with color. “Is there a place we might speak in private?”

“Triss has cultivated our lovely back garden. Come, we’ll take a turn in it.”

Triss had truly put her green thumb to great use. In a space that was once uniform and barely kept together there now abounded tasteful arrangements of flowerbeds and carved shrubbery. It was one of Jaskier’s favorite short walks to take in the world and he praised Triss for it often, but he loved it not nearly half as much as Sabrina did, and in the summer months his sister could hardly be pried from one of her favorite benches towards the center of the hedge maze Triss had grown.

What else those two might get up to in the hedge maze when it was dark—well, Jaskier did not wish to know details.

Essi took his arm and was silent for the first part of the walk, until they were far out enough from the house that no one at the windows might overhear them, and then she burst out with all the force and cheer of a holiday cracker,

“He has been found, and stopped! Lady Yennefer did some sort of tracking magic on Marx and discovered him, and forced him to do as she bade!”

Well, if anyone could manage that, it was Yennefer of Vengerberg. How did she come to know of Essi’s plight? “That is a generosity of spirit that I did not expect from her.”

“The news shall be all over shortly,” Essi said. “But I could not wait, I had to tell you in person, my work is mine and mine alone and Marx has been soundly disgraced by the dean, oh it was madness of the most marvelous sort!”

“But how did your nerves fare, were you obliged to see him again?”

“I was so terribly nervous,” Essi said. “But I felt entirely safe since Geralt was there.”

Jaskier’s entire body flashed hot, and cold, and then hot again. “Geralt? Geralt of _Rivia_? The White Wolf?”

Essi clapped her hands over her mouth, her eyes wide. “Oh, but I shouldn’t have said! It was supposed to be a secret! He doesn’t want anyone to know!”

“Essi.” Jaskier grabbed her wrists. “Essi, tell me everything, please.”

“Oh…” Essi glanced about as if afraid others might be hiding in the shrubbery and overhear them. “It was—well he was just marvelous, Jaskier. How he found Mr. Marx, I do not know, but he got to him immediately and took me to him—with Lady Yennefer, using one of her portals. He put such fear in Mr. Marx! I was quite astonished for you know I have never been afraid of Geralt, he’s quite a lamb around you, but the fury in him then! He made Mr. Marx apologize and give me back my writings and took us both to the dean of Oxenfurt—and demanded my work be submitted and accepted as a thesis!”

Jaskier’s head spun so violently he feared he might fall over like a heroine in a Gothic novel. “All this, and he wishes for no credit?”

“None. He told me I must keep the strictest confidence and that Lady Yennefer should take all credit. She did not seem quite happy with that, I must tell you, but she did portal us hither and yon and was quite imposing to the dean as well. She threatened to turn Mr. Marx into a frog.”

“And at the end of all of it—did Geralt not say anything to you? No words of—affection?”

Essi seemed puzzled. “Why should he?”

Surely this was a confirmation of his fears, that Geralt had fallen for Essi and would soon make his affections known. But of course he would not do it then, for he would fear she would be obliged to show him a return of feelings out of gratitude rather than true sincerity. Of course, of course Geralt would wait until a later date when Essi would not feel the pang of obligation.

“No reason.” Jaskier straightened up and released her wrists. “Forgive me, Poppet, I—I’ve forced a confidence out of you. We will never speak of it again, if you wish. The whole affair was painful to you but now it is over, and you are to be recognized as a graduate of Oxenfurt now, are you not?”

“I will be receiving my degree in a few months’ time provided I complete a few practical tests and do at least one public performance.”

“Then we must get started on it immediately.” Jaskier forced a smile onto his face. “To the lutes, my dear girl, to the lutes! Onward to glory!”

Essi laughed and took his arm, her smile radiant, and Jaskier tried very hard not to hate her, just a little, for the heart that was soon to be given her.

* * *

Calanthe allowed herself a glance at the clock as she finished her paperwork for the day. She told herself it was not anything to do with Eist and his habit of turning up at her home around a particular time.

She told herself a great many things to get herself through the day, as of late.

Geralt had informed her he would be out of town for the following weeks, and Calanthe could not hide the conflict of emotions that swirled in her at the news. On the one hand she desired for the Witcher to go far away and never return. She wished dearly to never see him again.

And yet, on the other hand—Cirilla needed him. And she could not forget what happened the last time he went away. Was it destiny or mere bad luck that had struck her beloved daughter?

She needed Geralt, and yet she did not want him, had never wanted him, and the horrible dichotomy ate at her.

The room she had chosen as her study was situated in precisely the best location in order to hear whenever someone entered or exited the house, which was part of her aim in selecting it. The windows also had an excellent view of the grounds, and directly above her was her own bedroom, so that she might know if anyone had entered it.

Calanthe preferred to know all that went about in her little kingdom.

The front bell rang and Calanthe marked the footsteps of the servant who went to answer it. Eist at last.

She put away her papers and stood. She had thought that she and Eist had an understanding of sorts. Marriage had been, for her, a necessary evil and she had no wish to tie herself to another person once more. If the man must persist in proposing to her that was his own problem, it was not hers to soothe his ego.

And yet his most recent plea had stuck in her heart, against her will. While she flouted what rules of society she could, her reputation still meant much, as it did for all. A person’s reputation was all that one had. It was one thing to be known for having a cutting tongue. It was another to be known for having a carnal relationship with another, and live with them as if married, without any legally or religiously binding ties to make it so.

Eist did not want to hide their relationship, and Calanthe hated that she felt… flattered, that his only aim seemed to be that he could kiss her hand in public and gaze at her as he wished to, that he could openly live with her and be by her side.

She had not thought there was a man capable of subjugating himself to a woman in such a manner. But surely if any man had proven his fidelity it had been Eist…

The door to the study opened, but it was not Eist who entered.

Tissaia de Vries wore a dark green dress of heavy material in the style of the last decade, matching gloves on her hands, her hair pulled back tightly and smoothed over.

Calanthe had never been a fan of the woman, and as in regards to most opinions held by Calanthe Fionna Rhiannon, she had not held back in the expression of it. However, she could also admit that Miss de Vries had a powerful and imposing presence. As one who had cultivated such a presence herself, Calanthe could recognize and respect it in others.

“Mrs. Rhiannon.” Miss de Vries spoke calmly. “Forgive the imposition. I considered inviting you to call upon me, perhaps for tea or a light supper, but I suspected the invitation would be declined. I hope you do not mind me taking a more forward application.”

“I do mind, but I can respect one’s determination.” Calanthe did not offer her guest a chair.

Miss de Vries noted the slight, Calanthe was sure of it, but she made no acknowledgment of it. “Firstly, I have come to apologize on behalf of my former student, Lady Yennefer of Vengerberg. She spoke in an office that was mine, when Aretuza has not given her such permission, and I was given to understand that her overtures were not welcome. I am sorry for any distress she caused.”

“I had not thought the woman to be your responsibility any longer. But it is good to see you stepping forward to accept the school’s transgressions. A new policy, if I recall.”

Miss de Vries did not give Calanthe the benefit of seeing her flinch. “I understand your objections to the idea that Lady Yennefer presented. It is so often the case with the older generation—the ideas of the youth seem alarming. I have seen many estates fall behind.” She gave a pause that was just long enough, and then added, “But of course Cintra will never be in such a position… so long as you are living.”

Calanthe breathed deeply so that her jaw would not tighten and give herself away. “I plan to live for quite a long time.”

“Of course, of course, a lady such as yourself, in the prime of her health and beauty—I think the late bloomers are those that maintain their blush the longest, don’t you?—need not worry about such things. Even when one’s heir is so young.”

“When one has an heir, one feels ever-youthful. Ah…” Calanthe affected a slight touch of sympathy. “But of course the sorceresses of Aretuza do not know such a joy.”

“I am not Yennefer. You will have to adjust your cannons if you wish to land a hit.” Miss de Vries took off her gloves and gracefully slipped them into a pocket. “I have allowed your slights against myself and my school for a decade now, Mrs. Rhiannon. I have said nothing. I have made no overtures of friendship or attempted to repair the rift, in spite of our being such near neighbors. I have endured with grace and even at times enjoyment our little cold war.”

“And yet, here you stand before me. What changed?” Calanthe spread her hands. “Did you think that my daughter’s death would unbalance me? Place me in a mood to be persuaded?”

“No.” Miss de Vries clasped her hands together. “You went after Yennefer.”

It was a simple statement, and yet, the words were sharpened around the edges.

“I decided that the time had come for me to take a step towards addressing our relationship.”

“Ah. I went after your prize pupil, your precious star, the lady with the lightning fingers, and that pricked your pride.”

“Yennefer is not my pupil, and my defense of her has nothing to do with pride.” Something flickered deep in the darkness of Miss de Vries’ eyes, but Calanthe could not place it before it had vanished. “And I have not come to attack you. I have come…” Miss de Vries took a deep breath. “…to apologize.”

That was the last thing Calanthe had ever expected. “You have already done so, on Lady Yennefer’s behalf.”

“Not on hers. For myself.” Miss de Vries curtsied deeply, a gesture Calanthe was not owed by propriety, and one that startled her almost more than the other woman’s words. “I wronged you and every other parent who trusted their child of magic to me. I wronged every girl who sought my instruction. I wronged every noble-born daughter born in this country.”

Miss de Vries rose and met Calanthe’s eyes. There was no defiance, but also no pleading. “I believed my hands bound. I did not wish to risk myself by disclaiming such a powerful member of our council with only rumors at my back. I bought into the game of politics, and I did not do my duty as a woman: protecting other women.

“You are right to dislike me and distrust me. I failed. We all failed. And I have never given you the apology that you deserve, so I offer it to you now without caveat and without reserve.”

Calanthe had to admit that such words were a balm on a long-festering wound, and it gratified her to hear them at last. But she would not show softness too easily. “Do you hope for my forgiveness?”

“A person who gives apology with the sole aim of receiving forgiveness is not apologizing at all.”

Calanthe found herself respecting the woman a bit more. “There is more to it. That cannot be all.”

“There is. Lady Yennefer is not of Aretuza, and was never of Aretuza, when Stregobor did his work. She was a girl who knew nothing, as the other girls did. And her aim to instruct your granddaughter is pure. She was not always as you see her now. She knows much of loss and loneliness. Therefore, I have a proposition for you.”

Calanthe seated herself behind her desk and gestured for Miss de Vries to speak on.

“I will appoint another as the co-head of Aretuza, to run it beside myself. Such an expense and a shifting of the faculty must be explained as a matter of course, and we will do so by explanation of a new financial donor, one who, as a donor, has a say in how Aretuza is run.”

Calanthe raised an eyebrow. “Why would I care to help dictate how Aretuza is run?”

“Because your granddaughter must have instruction, Mrs. Rhiannon, and Aretuza is far closer to Cintra than Kaer Morhen.”

Miss de Vries had her by the throat there, and she knew it. “And how will you explain my interference to the council?”

“I had the slim hope that you would assist me in coming up with a solution.”

“And who will be your co-head?”

“I had a candidate in mind, but perhaps that is a discussion best had over tea.”

“I still have not said yes.”

“You would not be asking such questions if you planned to say no.”

Calanthe stood. Miss de Vries gave a small, tight-lipped smile.

“You are not doing all this for my granddaughter.”

“No. I am doing it because it is what Aretuza needs, and because it will, I hope, make someone else happy. Someone who is far dearer to me than you or your granddaughter.”

Calanthe could not resist the parting shot. “Tell me, does Lady Yennefer know of the… devotion you hold towards her?”

“I cannot say.” Miss de Vries pulled her gloves out of her pocket. “Does Mr. Tuirseach know that you love him? Or are such verbal platitudes beneath you?”

She slid her gloves back on. “If you consider my proposal and find it to your liking, please do call upon me at any point tomorrow morning. I’m afraid that tea is reserved for another, but I can also manage a supper if you would prefer.”

Tissaia de Vries swept out of the room, and Calanthe could admit that she had, possibly, not quite won that battle.

* * *

Yennefer sat quietly in the carriage, her hands in her lap. Across from her, Geralt glowered.

Geralt, she knew, disliked cities. It had something to do with Witcher senses. Too many people, too many sounds, smells, and sights to assault their heightened senses.

That was not, however, the reason for his glower.

Essi had been sent back to Lettenhove in order to both recover from the veritable whirlwind of emotions she had experienced, and to bless Jaskier with the good news. Yennefer and Geralt, however, had been obliged to stay in Oxenfurt for a few days more in order to smooth out the last stray pieces of this Valdo Marx business. The man himself, Yennefer found to have a spine made of pisswater. She wasted little energy managing him. The affair itself required much bowing and scraping and politicking, none of which Geralt was good with, and so Yennefer was obliged to lend a hand—especially since she was to take the credit for the whole of it.

It would do good for her tarnished reputation, to be known as the sort of generous spirit who would help a poor girl in need out of the goodness of her heart, but it did not sit right with her that Geralt’s own, truly generous spirit should go unnoticed.

Part of the matter was that Geralt did not wish to be noticed at all. The other part of the matter—well.

It was the reason Geralt glowered.

“You must tell him,” Yennefer tried once more.

“No.”

“Geralt.”

“Yen.”

They stared one another down. If only she could portal into rooms here—but proper decorum must be allowed for and she could not simply appear in the rooms of liberal arts professors the way she could Tissaia’s study at Aretuza.

Yennefer sighed. “Geralt, as much as it pains me to admit—I have enjoyed our time together in sorting out this mess. The mess itself I could do with less of, and I understand why you despise the man, but I do not regret repairing our friendship. For once in your life, will you listen to my council? Jaskier is not a man who is capable of harboring hate. If you are willing to do so much for him, then why can you not risk simply telling him that you still love him? You were willing to do a greater number of stupid things for my sake.”

“Hmm.”

Yennefer peered out the window of the carriage. “I know it is easier to make a fool of one’s self over someone for whom one does not care rather than someone for whom one cares dearly. Our aim is to earn their respect and pride in us. We wish to gratify their eyes and so will not risk the confirmation of their disappointment. To hear rejection, even rejection that is expected, is always painful.”

“You speak as if you know it intimately.”

Yennefer startled and looked back at him. “I—no. No, I do not. I only—no. Geralt, I am only saying that I understand. But you cannot remain in such a… purgatory of emotion.”

Geralt tilted his head ever so slightly in that way of his that reminded her of a curious wolf. “Who is it?”

“No one, Geralt, you impossible man.” Yennefer scoffed and crossed her legs, folding her wrists over one another and resting them upon her raised knee. “Our subject is you, not me.”

“Hmm.” Geralt sat back. “I think you ought to take your own advice.”

“There is no one, Geralt.”

“Hmm.”

Yennefer gazed out the window. Now she was the one with a glower. What did Geralt know? How could he possibly—there was no one, no one at all. She could have anyone she wanted.

She glanced down at her healed hands, and told herself it was not want.


	16. Chapter 16

Essi had need to travel back to Oxenfurt in order to take her practical exams, and Jaskier was employed to accompany her. Jaskier found himself of two minds about the matter. On the one hand, he could certainly use the distraction of travel and returning to Oxenfurt, a university town if there ever was one.

To be among his peers once again, to visit his professors and his old haunts—it would be a joyful holiday.

On the other hand, to return would be to remember how little he had accomplished since his student days, and to travel with Essi would remind him of how, once she had received her degree, she could accompany Geralt as his companion and bard.

Green was not a color that became him. He had never been the sort to give over to either envy or jealousy. And yet when it came to the subject of Geralt…

He would not allow himself to shirk in his love or his duty to Essi after all of this. Not out of his own ridiculous unrequited passions. He put as brave a smile on his face as he could manage, and made himself as obliging as everyone would expect.

To his surprise, on the morning they were to leave—burdened with a list of errands from Sabrina that she wished him to undertake while he was in town—Eskel and Lambert offered to accompany them.

Well, to be more precise about the matter, Eskel offered to have himself and his brother accompany them. Lambert merely glowered.

“Oxenfurt is on the way to Kaer Morhen, where we are bound in any case,” Eskel said. “The road will be happier with your company, and the time will pass all the swifter.”

Jaskier was both grateful for and frustrated by the suggestion. He was of two minds all the time, lately, it seemed.

“Certainly,” he said aloud, for he was not going to hurt the feelings of such an amiable person, and certainly not the feelings of two Witchers that could enact a creative revenge should they wish for it.

The journey to Oxenfurt, if taken by road and not portal, was a matter of two days’ travel, setting out in the morning and being obliged to stop at an inn for the night, then arriving at Oxenfurt on the evening of the following day.

Jaskier could feel his mood lifting as he entered the city. Ah, Oxenfurt! The city of spires, of crumbling brick buildings, of student revolts over terrible midday meal services—the place he had been happiest.

A smile came to his face, and Eskel nudged Essi, and then nodded at Jaskier. “It seems that our companion has at last found his humor.”

“Oh come now, I was not so bad.”

“You could hardly answer a question with more than three words strung together,” Essi replied with a light laugh. “You were competing with Geralt for moody silences!”

It was true that Eskel and Essi had taken up the lion’s share of the conversation on their journey, but Jaskier had not realized that his silence carried such an air of melancholy. He must do better. None of them, but most of all Essi, could be allowed to suspect his downward spirits or the reason behind them.

“Well, I am in much better spirits now, as you can see.” He made his smile widen. “I am afraid, my dear Witchers, that we must take leave of you now. Essi must check in with the dean so that she may prepare for her exams and her performance.”

“You are remiss in thinking we will leave before we have the chance to see Miss Daven’s performance,” Eskel said. He smiled at her, and Essi colored. “We would not miss it for the world. If she is to have a panel of stern-faced elders staring her down, she ought to have some friends at her side as well.”

Lambert scowled and glared off into the distance. Jaskier did not have to force his smile to stay wide this time. “Well, I am certainly grateful that I shall not have to endure Essi’s songs alone.”

He winked at her to show he was only in jest. Essi glared at him playfully. “I am going to make my appointments.”

Jaskier wondered idly if Geralt ought to be there. Surely he would want to see Essi perform and take in the measure of her. A bard was not only their writings but their ability to hold a crowd, and that had often been where Ellen had succeeded and Essi had struggled. And having Geralt there, when she had such a high opinion of him, could only serve to bolster her.

“Is Geralt still in town?” he whispered to Eskel, keeping his voice low so that Essi would not overhear and be unduly excited if the answer was no.

Eskel shook his head. “He has dispatched himself to Kaer Morhen, to speak with Vesemir on some matter.”

“Surely he could write the man a letter.”

“Not if it were of true importance.”

What could be of such importance? Jaskier searched his mind and could discover only one possible solution: Geralt needed Vesemir’s permission to take on Essi as his bard.

He had studied this, and knew that a Witcher needed permission from the head of their school in order to take someone on as their bard. Jaskier wasn’t entirely clear on the reasons why, something in the matter of respect and reputation and the rest, but that hadn’t mattered much to him.

Why else would Geralt be up there? Jaskier had to swallow his own heart back down his throat and constrict it lest it fly out of him and dash itself to pieces on the ground.

If this was the case, then Essi’s good marks on this performance and her tests for her thesis would be even more important. Jaskier would not use her ill and abandon their friendship for the sake of jealousy.

“Come, Poppet. Let’s show these old men what you can do, hmm?” He took Essi by the arm. “We shall expect the both of you at her performance, and that especially includes you, Lambert.”

“Or else?” Lambert asked.

“I’ll send Geralt after you.” Jaskier winked at him.

Lambert’s glower set him into a fine mood, or as fine a mood as he could manage, and had Essi smiling as he led her into the university.

* * *

Calanthe sat in her desk chair, gazing out the large window. She saw nothing.

“I had thought I could end my worries over you falling into despair,” Eist noted. “Should I begin them again?”

She started, as she so rarely did. It was not often that someone could surprise her. She looked around towards Eist where he stood in the doorway and found that it had grown dark around her. Behind him the candles were lit in the hall, and a glance at the clock on the mantle revealed that it was time to dine.

“I was not thinking of Pavetta,” she said.

Eist crossed to her and Calanthe rose to her feet. “It is not often you lose track of time.”

“I have been given much to consider.” She paused. “I had a visit from Miss de Vries.”

“Ah.”

“You wrote to her.”

Eist did not attempt to deny it.

“Why?”

Her hands braced on the desk, fingers splayed as if she readied to wrap them around the hilt of a sword.

Eist slid his fingers over hers, and for a moment, she retained the tenseness in her muscles. But then, gingerly, she began to relax them.

His fingers interlocked with hers.

“Because I knew you would never do it yourself, and I wished for you to no longer be in pain.”

“You think I ought to agree to her arrangement.”

“I think,” Eist said evenly, “that there is a way to do what is best for both Cirilla and for yourself at the same time.”

Calanthe gazed at him through the darkness. Most of their meetings were in darkness. Not only because of their clandestine nature but also in part because she feared what Eist, what any person, would see of her in such moments, if the lights had been lit.

“Would it be so horrid to be known as merciful and forgiving?” she asked, paraphrasing his own words back at him, the words he had said to her so many times over the years.

Eist said nothing. He had long ago learned when to be silent with her, when not to push. It was one of the reasons she so…

Calanthe withdrew her hand from his. “I will agree to the partnership.”

Eist parted his lips to speak, but she placed her finger over them. “It will be known that I am doing so as a favor, on behalf of my grandchild, and to my husband.” She lowered her finger.

She could barely see the flash of his teeth in the dark, but she knew that Eist was smiling. “To your husband.”

“It is traditional to exchange gifts when one is to be married, is it not?”

Several moments later, Cirilla poked her head in. “Grandmother I—oh, _ew!_ Ew! Stop kissing and come to dinner before it gets cold! You’re disgusting, adults are disgusting.”

She slammed the door on them.

* * *

Tissaia most often made herself available to visitors in the late mornings for those who wished to call upon her. Morning classes were held by the lesser professors, and she taught her students in the afternoon, once she had finished her tea with Yennefer. For the senior students, there were evening lectures conducted by herself and certain other esteemed professors after evening meals.

It was not a surprise to her that Lady Fringilla often called upon her at such a time. While Tissaia had been honest with Yennefer that she had not been aware of certain liberties Lady Fringilla took in regards to her perception of her relationship with Tissaia, she was certainly aware of Lady Fringilla’s hopeful designs upon Aretuza.

Yennefer seemed to be the only person in the entire country who was unaware of the push for Tissaia to retire or share the, as the council so kindly put it, ‘burden’ of running Aretuza. First they had done nothing against Stregobor, and then after his death they had tied her to the pyre and set it alight.

She had been blowing out the flames ever since, but she could not hold them back forever, and there was only one way by which she could retain her place in the home she loved, doing what made her happiest.

It had long been speculated these past few years that she would take on a partner rather than cede her position, and if the council was being entirely honest with themselves (a rarity) they probably could admit that Aretuza could not be run without her assistance.

Who that partner would be, however, none knew.

Yes, from the outset, Tissaia had known why Lady Fringilla had come to visit Aretuza and it was not merely to pay respects or to see the countryside.

Now that Calanthe was in agreement over her proposal, or at least considering it, Tissaia felt herself in a more secure position and was fully prepared to deliver such stronger hints that would impress upon Lady Fringilla the futility of her quest. Until this moment, Tissaia had only been taking such precautions as to prevent an impression of deeper friendship and confidence than she wished. Now, however, she could proceed with a firmer hand.

It was with such designs in mind that she welcomed Lady Fringilla to her drawing room when the sorceress called upon her that morning. The lady’s calling times had steadily become earlier and earlier, in such twenty and ten minute increments, until she was now stepping through Tissaia’s door at only eleven o’clock. It was barely an acceptable time to be calling and showcased a thought towards an intimate friendship that did not exist.

Tissaia welcomed her with grace. Unlike her darling Yenna, she could show patience.

Some tea was brought out and Tissaia talked lightly of the weather, the local news, and other such surface matters. Lady Fringilla was obliging. She was not the sort to smile with her mouth, but with her eyes, and in the occasional uptick of the corner of her lips. She did it often, and Tissaia expected no less. There were social niceties to be observed, after all, and she was aware that there was a keen need in this woman to be seen as sophisticated.

At last, talk was gently turned by Lady Fringilla onto Aretuza matters, and from there the course steered onto the empty instructor’s position that Tissaia hoped to fill with Vilgefortz.

“I would have thought you would fill the space with Lady Yennefer, if you do not mind my expressing my surprise,” Lady Fringilla said. “She seems to have such a fondness for the place, over here every day for tea.”

“Yennefer has become a companion to me rather than merely a former student,” Tissaia replied. “But I had different designs for her and I thought a positive influence for the men who are students here would not be remiss.”

“I thought it might perhaps be because—ah, it is no matter, in any case how—”

“No, no, do share your thoughts.”

Had Lady Fringilla come to suspect the real reason? Tissaia would not have been surprised. Yennefer seemed unable to see it, but Lady Fringilla saw her as a threat to her position, and rightfully so.

“I thought you might have heard of Lady Yennefer’s… how shall I put this? It is such a delicate matter…” Lady Fringilla set down her empty teacup. “Her particular lineage.”

Tissaia’s stomach went cold. How Lady Fringilla had learned of Yennefer’s elven blood, Tissaia knew not. She’d thought that Yennefer had done everything possible to erase it from the memories of society. But this was a singularly skilled and determined woman in front of her.

“Perhaps I shall order us some more tea, and you may enlighten me.” Tissaia rang for a servant. “Ah, yes, Bess, will you please have another pot brought out for us? And do remind Albert that it’s his day for polishing the silver, you know he always tries to skive off.”

“Yes’m,” Bess replied, taking the tea things.

A few minutes later a fresh pot was brought in, along with fresh dishware, and Tissaia poured for them both. “You were saying?”

“Well, I should have thought that you of all people would be aware…” Lady Fringilla sipped her tea. “But perhaps it is your lack of knowing that allowed you to accept the girl into Aretuza in the first place. I do hate to inform you of such distressing news, but Yennefer of Vengerberg is half-elvish. She has not merely a bit of elvish from far back in her bloodline. Her father himself was an elf.”

“Mmm.” Tissaia watched Lady Fringilla sip at her tea, and picked up her own cup. “There is still a great deal of unfair prejudice against such people.”

“Unfair, it may be, but one must take society’s opinion into account when selecting one’s students and especially one’s staff,” Lady Fringilla replied.

Tissaia tipped her head in acknowledgment. “Aretuza cannot afford another scandal. Even if I may dare to say that a woman’s elvish blood is far less of a mark than a madman’s homicides.”

“Indeed.” Lady Fringilla finished off her tea and set down her cup.

Tissaia set hers down as well. “You will stop speaking now.”

Lady Fringilla gave her a look of confusion, opened her mouth—and found that she could not make a sound.

Tissaia stood. “We are long past the age of turrets and moats, but I know how to protect myself and my school.”

She instructed all servants and staff carefully on the various codes. Some were known only to one group or the other, some were known to both.

“I’m sure that you are familiar with Limbus grass,” Tissaia went on. “I should hope that you were instructed properly on herbology at your school. I have instructed all of my staff in how to properly brew it. It makes a barely-detectable addition to any pot of tea, gives it a lovely depth of flavor.”

Lady Fringilla seemed to be aware of the transgression she had made, but she could not speak to extricate herself from the pit she had dug.

Tissaia took the woman’s chin in her fingers and lifted her face up. “Now. You will not speak of what you know of Yennefer of Vengerberg’s heritage. You will tell not a single soul, living or dead. You will do nothing that will injure Yennefer or cause her to be a scandal to society. You will take the knowledge you have gained of her to your grave.”

Lady Fringilla was bound by the potion now sliding through her body, seeping into her blood, its magic steeping in her just as the herb had steeped in the tea.

Tissaia raised an eyebrow. “Do you understand?”

Lady Fringilla nodded. Tissaia was not asking if the woman understood only her words, but rather if she understood the way that Tissaia had just now bound her, a fact of which she knew Lady Fringilla was aware.

Tissaia released her. “You may speak again, if you wish.”

“What have you done?” Lady Fringilla stood, her chest heaving, her teeth bared. “You would risk your school and your reputation, an already tarnished reputation, on that upstart?”

Tissaia cleaned up the dishware and did not even favor the other woman with a glance. She was not obliged to answer Lady Fringilla. To do so would only reveal more weakness than she had already shown in protecting Yennefer so blatantly.

Being ignored seemed to send Lady Fringilla into an even more towering rage. “I am not the sort you wish to make your enemy.”

Tissaia turned to glance at her over her shoulder. “I have bested you just now, and I did not even have to lift a finger. Which one of us has the right to feel threatened?”

Lady Fringilla snapped her mouth closed, and Tissaia turned away from her once more. To turn one’s back on an enemy was not a smart idea, but Lady Fringilla was like Tissaia herself, the sort to know when a battle was not worth fighting. Too often she had avoided battles altogether, battles that she ought to have fought, and she suspected Lady Fringilla would do the same. After all, which was easier? To openly fight against Aretuza’s established headmistress and attempt to wrestle her way into the post? Or to return to Europe and find a prestigious post elsewhere?

After a few moments of frigid, incensed silence, Lady Fringilla said stiffly, “I bid you good day, Miss de Vries,” and parted.

Once she had quit the room and was safely gone from the grounds, Tissaia sank into her chair. Her heart beat rapidly. That might have gone horribly sour.

“Are you all right, headmistress?” Bess returned for the tray. “We brewed the tea fast as we could ma’am, was it quite potent?”

“You did admirably,” Tissaia replied. “Please clear the tea things. Remind me to give you all a bonus this Saturday.”

Bess curtsied with a smile and Tissaia turned her gaze towards the window. She must make herself presentable for Yennefer in a few hours. The woman must never know—she had worked too hard to hide her past.

Tissaia stood quickly as a swirling portal opened into the room and Yennefer stepped through.

“Yenna.” Her heart was not under control, not at all. “You… you are early.”

“Oxenfurt was a terrible mess, but it is all sorted at last. I have taken Geralt to Kaer Morhen, some business there to follow up on regarding Marx, but I am no longer needed.” Yennefer smiled and held her hands out.

Tissaia stood frozen, unsure.

“Oh come now.” Yennefer stepped into her instead and kissed her cheek. Yennefer’s lips were always warm, so warm. “It has been a number of weeks since I have seen you, I have missed you so, you might at least pretend to have missed me.”

If only she knew. Tissaia allowed herself to tuck a lock of hair out of Yennefer’s face. Her hair was so dark, it always caught the light and shone, creating a sort of glow about her head as though she were something greater than human. “If I allowed myself to miss you, you should leave all the time, so that you could tease me for it.”

To her surprise, Yennefer appeared alarmed by this statement. She clasped Tissaia’s hands and brought them up, pressing their joined hands together between their chests. “Do not think me quite that cruel, Tissaia.”

She wanted to feel Yennefer’s tongue shape that word. “I have thought you reckless and irresponsible and a test to my patience, but cruel, no, Yenna, not that.”

“Oh, good. For out of the two of us, you are the cruel one.” Yennefer broke apart from her with a teasing lilt, to show she did not mean it hurtfully.

Tissaia swallowed. “There are different definitions of cruel.”

She should not say such things. Yennefer never understood them in the spirit they were meant, and besides, she had long ago resigned herself to the truth that Yennefer saw her still as an instructor rather than an equal, and certainly never a person to desire.

Yennefer laughed. “If the reward were of the right sort, I should happily endure all sorts of cruelty.” She gave Tissaia an arch look, a look that spoke of dark, heady knowledge, and Tissaia was grateful that the hot tea could explain the flush on her cheeks. “But come! Show me what I have been missing, how are the little beasts getting on in their studies?”

Tissaia made an attempt to breathe and allowed Yennefer to tuck their arms together so that they might walk the grounds. It was enough, she told herself. Yennefer was happy, and laughing, and no one could hurt her.

It was enough.


	17. Chapter 17

Jaskier could not be with Essi during her tests. He could well remember his own final exams and blanched in sympathy for her when he considered how exacting the professors had been, and how it was highly likely they were the same now—perhaps even more so, since Essi had to prove herself without the benefit of being their student for some years prior.

If anyone could do it, however, Jaskier was sure it would be Essi Daven. She was nothing short of a perfectionist and at times he felt she was a miracle.

“You seem not at all worried about her,” Eskel noted as Jaskier took him and Lambert for a short walk through a local park. There was nothing else to do, and Lambert did grumble about it, but Eskel was eager to see the place where bards were known to be molded into proper performers, and there were often student bards about in the park practicing for those walking by (and earning some extra coin while they were at it).

Jaskier scoffed. “If anyone can manage to pull this rabbit out of the hat, it shall be Essi. She is a singular talent. I will never say so to her, given present circumstances, but her elder sister was quite envious of her. She has a natural talent that comes only once in a generation or so and that rare ruthlessness with her own work that ensures perfection before she submits it to others for review. I have never seen anyone possess a better sensibility for the human condition.”

“Oh, please,” Lambert said. “Nobody’s that good. You bards are prone to hyperbole.”

“You shall see her perform when she has to do her public debut,” Jaskier replied. “And then you will have to stand up to the ignominy of your words.”

Eskel snorted in amusement. “I have looked forward greatly to hearing her sing. She is a lovely young woman and I hope for the best in her regard.”

“Ignominy,” Lambert grumbled, as if to himself. “And you’re the bard Geralt was always speaking of.”

“Geralt spoke of me?” Jaskier hoped his voice did not betray the ball of fire that slid down his throat into his stomach at hearing Lambert’s words.

“He recommended we seek you out as a partner,” Eskel reminded him.

“A recommendation is not the same as speaking of someone,” Jaskier replied. “While the words themselves are innocent, they convey through tone a particular undercurrent of meaning.”

“I mean he actually said you were good,” Lambert said. “Geralt doesn’t say any bard’s good. It was enough to get us curious.”

“And you have proven yourself an admirable player and gentleman,” Eskel said loyally.

Lambert glared.

“You must have had your hands full with the both of them growing up,” Jaskier teased Eskel with a playful glance in Lambert’s direction.

“I’m a ray of fucking sunshine,” Lambert replied.

“Of course you are,” Eskel said in a tone that deeply conveyed the opposite.

“I am in a great shock, truly, that it has taken Lambert so long to find himself a bard,” Jaskier said, more than happy to play along. “After all, who could resist entering into a partnership with such a fine specimen of courtesy and wit?”

Lambert glared at him.

“One would think, given your acquaintance with Geralt, that you would be used to taciturn Witchers,” Eskel pointed out.

Jaskier wished that they could turn from the subject of Geralt, but he supposed there was no helping it given that the man was the admired brother of both men. “Geralt may often be silent and there are occasions where his words convey the opposite of his intended meaning, but I have found him to be a thoughtful and diplomatic companion. Blessed with a surprising sense of humor.”

“Sense of humor?” Lambert blurted out, a bit too loudly for the dictates of politeness, and a few other walkers shot alarmed glares in his direction. “Geralt? Are we discussing the same Witcher? Yea high, white hair, scar under his eye?”

“Geralt has a fine sense of humor,” Eskel declared.

Jaskier could not be certain if this was Eskel’s truthful opinion or if it was merely Eskel’s loyalty towards both his brother and towards being agreeable.

“Fuck’s sake,” Lambert grumbled, and then he added an additional comment that was pitched too quietly for Jaskier to make out.

Whatever it was, it seemed to be the reason for Eskel’s sudden and fond grin. “Having a respect for Geralt raises a person’s esteem in my eyes, so I am grateful for it. He’s had a difficult past with bards and to see him on good terms with one has done us all good.”

“He is on good terms with two, now,” Jaskier replied. He could not reveal Geralt’s role in assisting Essi, for he would not wish it to be known and he would keep Geralt’s secret, but he was sure Eskel had noticed Geralt’s fond interactions with the girl, as Jaskier had. “He has taken a shine to Miss Daven.”

“I can hardly see how he would fail to,” Eskel replied. “She could win over anyone.”

Jaskier heartily wished they were back in the times when all men carried rapiers on their person, so that he might fall onto his and die promptly.

“But your good estimation of her I am sure carried weight with him,” Eskel added, as if attempting to smooth over any perceived slight.

“To be sure, Geralt has had more opinions from me than any man could stand to hear in a lifetime,” Jaskier said.

“You’d be surprised,” Lambert said.

Jaskier looked over at the other Witcher. “Oh?”

“Geralt is a better listener than most give him credit for,” Lambert explained gruffly. “He was always the best. Not because he was stronger or faster. That came after. They picked him for the extra mutations because he was the best listener. He was attentive. The rest of us little shits were right arseholes. Geralt was always the bookish one.”

Geralt? Bookish? It was hard to picture the mountain of a man that was Geralt sitting in a library pouring over…

And yet he wrote long, detailed letters that betrayed an eloquence Geralt normally kept hidden. He displayed a sensitivity of temperament that Jaskier himself had been unable to properly observe upon their first months of acquaintance. And he was deeply knowledgeable as a Witcher, a subject that Jaskier knew from his own studies required many hours bent over tomes.

He could picture a younger, lankier Geralt in the library of Kaer Morhen—although he knew not how such a library looked—poring carefully over a book, learning and absorbing all that he could, taking copious notes.

“People still think of Witchers as more muscle than manners,” Eskel said, a thoughtful expression on his face. “But Geralt was—still is—very conscious of how he’s perceived, what others think. He tries to be gentle. I doubt he always succeeds, he was forever putting his foot into his mouth and he can be rather against the idea of company. But he cares.”

Jaskier would normally welcome with great heartiness all stories of Geralt from two who knew him so well and for so long, but now, knowing that he would never benefit from seeing such intimate sides of Geralt himself, knowing that he would never grow to know Geralt as well as these two did—it twisted the knife that rested ever-present in his breastbone.

“Is it not time for us to see Essi?” he said, forcing himself to gaiety.

Eskel appeared invigorated by the news. “Shall we, then?”

The hall where Essi was to play was quite packed, and Jaskier had no doubt that in spite of any good efforts on behalf of the professors, word had gotten around regarding Essi’s particular case.

Jaskier did hope that at the very least, word had also gotten around as to Marx’s heinous role in the whole affair.

They procured themselves some seats towards the front. When Essi stepped out, she caught sight of them and immediately went scarlet.

The poor girl had never been what one would call a born performer. Her skill had always been in her exquisite, heart wrenching command of language and her deft, fluid touch with musical instruments.

Jaskier dug his fingers into his own thighs with worry as Essi gave proper reverence to the board who would be judging her performance, and then took up a spot in front of the crowd.

To his surprise and quite overwhelming relief, Essi found her voice quickly, and seemed to have discovered her particular manner of performance as well. She did not prance about the stage as most did, but rather moved through the crowd, sitting down in front of people to softly sing with them directly, as though she were telling a story.

It was unconventional, but intimate and heartfelt, the perfect match to her songs, and Jaskier could see the crowd favoring her.

Eskel leaned in. “We had a few talks on the journey here concerning her fears about her performance. I hope my advice has been helpful.”

“Indeed it has. I have never seen her so in command of herself.”

Jaskier gazed around at the assembled crowd to take in their admiration, his heart swelling with pride and endearment—and caught sight of a particular figure hovering by the door.

“Pardon me,” he whispered to Eskel, and he slipped away towards the back.

Valdo Marx had the courage, or perhaps the stupidity, to smile as Jaskier approached him. “Ah, my dear boy, how are you getting on?”

Jaskier considered that it was possible Marx did not know the full extent of Jaskier’s intimacy with Essi Daven. If Essi had not told Marx of their close friendship, he would have no reason to suspect that Jaskier had any particular fondness for her. It could also have been that Marx did know of it, and was trying to ascertain if Jaskier knew the truth of Marx’s actions towards Essi.

It would not do to show his cards too quickly. “Quite well, Mr. Marx, quite well.”

Marx had to have noted the slight distancing in their friendship by the use of the prefix before his last name. “I am gratified to hear of it. She plays so lovely, does she not? I am glad you are in Oxenfurt to hear her. A dear girl, a very dear girl. Did you know that she kindly allowed me to look over her works for my assessment before she submitted them?”

“I believe she mentioned something of the sort,” Jaskier allowed. He kept his tone light. “When she was last visiting me at Lettenhove a few days prior. I escorted her here for her thesis only yesterday.”

Marx paled a little and his smile became a bit more fixed. “Ah, you two are well acquainted then.”

“Oh, very. It seems we have many acquaintances in common. As you know, Geralt of Rivia has returned from Europe.”

Marx’s eyes gleamed, for here, Jaskier was sure, he thought he could win Jaskier’s favor over again. Marx had no earthly reason to believe that Jaskier and Geralt were at all on good terms.

“And you have seen him frequently?” Marx asked. “Since he returned to England?”

“Oh, yes, almost every day.”

“His manners are very different from his brother’s.” Marx indicated Eskel, who listened to Essi with a rapt face and bright eyes.

“Yes, very different. But I think Geralt improves on acquaintance.”

“Indeed! How so? I dare not hope that he is improved in essentials.”

“Oh, no,” Jaskier said with a smile that dared to show some of his knowledge. “In essentials, I believe, he is very much what he ever was.”

Marx seemed alarmed, and Jaskier pressed his advantage. “When I said he improved on acquaintance, I didn’t mean that he was improving himself—rather, that from knowing him better, his disposition was better… well.” Jaskier smiled. “Better understood.”

Marx went a little pale, and Jaskier had to hold in a laugh. Everything else was worth it to be able to enjoy the look on Marx’s face.

Jaskier realized that he could no longer hear Essi’s soaring, pillow-soft soprano. All was silent.

He turned in time to see Eskel lead the round of applause.

Essi curtsied, her cheeks a becoming shade of pink, and Jaskier clapped wildly until his hands stung, swelling with pride for her. And if his vision blurred a trifle as he thought of how proud Ellen would have been to see her sister succeed—well, none could tell.

* * *

Geralt waited with an attempt at patience, and a very valiant attempt he thought, for Vesemir to say something.

Vesemir stood in front of the fire, arms folded, and continued to contemplate the flames. Geralt kept his hands clasped in front of him and willed himself not to shift his weight. Even the slightest movement would be caught by Vesemir. The man knew Geralt far too well.

“Does your wound bother you?” Vesemir asked.

Damn. Geralt kept his curses to himself. “It’s fine.”

It was healing well, with great thanks to his mutations, but there was no substitute for Triss’ healing abilities. He could have returned to Lettenhove from Oxenfurt in order to obtain her assistance, but that would have required seeing Jaskier again and he—he could not.

Not when he could feel the ghost of Jaskier’s hands on his skin, Jaskier’s soft smile dancing in his eyes as he recalled how Jaskier had sat on the edge of the bath. Jaskier’s teasing echoed in his mind. Jaskier’s smell haunted his nose. He could not erase the intimacy of that one sweet hour from his memory.

Vesemir at last turned from the fire. “Why did you never tell me?”

“I would have had to tell you about Renfri.”

“And you thought I would be disappointed in your choices?”

Geralt remained silent.

Vesemir sighed. “Geralt. I cannot say what my response would have been had you brought her to me at the time. But I can tell you that nothing you did has disappointed me.”

Geralt blinked in surprise.

Vesemir clapped him on the shoulder. “My only concern is that you kept such a burden to yourself.”

“That’s it?” Geralt blurted out.

“The fault is mine, not yours. If I had not given way to politics, you never would have been paired with the man. After the death of… well. I was unsure in my position as grandmaster. I was new and felt that it was wise to pair the dean of Oxenfurt’s favored with my own. I should have advised you to do as you wished.”

Geralt could not recall a time where Vesemir had ever spoken with such a note of gentleness, or when he had ever apologized. Geralt knew not how to respond, and so said nothing.

“Even if I had been of a mind to discipline you, lecture you—anything I could have possibly said to you, anything I could have possibly chastised you on, you have already said to yourself a thousand times over. Any punishment I could have devised, should I wish to, could not have been worse than the things you have believed of yourself.” Vesemir bestowed him with a grim smile. “Am I wrong?”

“Hmm.”

Vesemir squeezed his shoulder and released him. “I am glad you’ve told me. We can warn the others to avoid Marx.” He paced back towards the fire. “Now. About the girl.”

“Perhaps Coën would wish to take her on?”

“I can inquire. There are some spots available for those from Cat, although a recent death has left them skittish.”

“Was it the same death that took the life of Ellen Daven?”

“I believe that was the name of the bard who died, yes.”

“Essi is her younger sister.” Geralt paused. “Lambert?”

“Lambert? With such a girl as you described, he shall eat her alive and spit her back out. He needs someone who possesses the same fire as he does.”

Jaskier had that same fire. Or, rather he had the sort of sunshine and strength of personality that could counterbalance Lambert.

“I should think Eskel a good match for her temperament,” Vesemir said. “He needs someone who is not of the showy kind, someone who can appreciate what lies underneath his cheerful disposition and does not underestimate him.”

Geralt’s throat constricted and he was obliged to swallow a few times before he could again find his voice. “Hmm.”

Eskel and Jaskier had spent much time together while Eskel had been on the mend from the leshen attack. Both were possessed of a depth of character that many did not appreciate upon first meeting, and both were sociable. Geralt had every expectation that he would soon hear of their partnership, professionally if not even more so, while the two remained together at Lettenhove, in constant sight of one another.

It was not, however, his place to tell Vesemir so. Eskel would forgive him for the transgression, of course, for Eskel did not have it in his nature to hold a grudge, but he would be hurt that Geralt betrayed a confidence.

Vesemir gave Geralt a piercing look that indicated he knew that Geralt possessed more opinions than he let on. “Are you certain, Geralt, that there is no bard for you?”

“There is no one for me,” Geralt replied. “My focus is Ciri.”

Vesemir undoubtedly noted the difference in phrasing between himself and Geralt, but said nothing on that matter. “Cirilla. Yes. What headway have you made? May I be of assistance?”

The talk turned to Geralt’s struggles with Calanthe, and Geralt took care to save his sigh of relief for when he had gone far away enough that the old Witcher’s keen ears could not pick it up.

* * *

Jaskier and Eskel had their hands full praising Essi all the night long, as she laughed and blushed and assured them nothing was certain until the morning, when the board finished their deliberations.

Lambert suggested a celebratory drink, although with an air that suggested he offered the idea not out of a sense of camaraderie but because he wished to get himself drunk as soon as possible, or at the very least bestow himself with that sort of pleasant buzz that makes all previously intolerable companions a good deal more bearable.

Marx did a passable imitation of a weasel and slunk out of the room when Essi’s applause had become too great for the man to bear, and Jaskier was quite content to let him go. There was nothing more to be said. Geralt was vindicated, Essi had been saved—no, more than saved, she was triumphant—what else could Jaskier possibly wish?

Now, there was nothing to do but find a decent public house in which to pass the time and procure some food while awaiting Essi’s verdict.

“I have never seen you perform with such confidence,” Jaskier told her honestly once they had procured a booth in the corner.

“Eskel wisely made the observation that I am not a performer but a storyteller,” Essi replied. “And when I thought of it more as an opportunity to connect with an individual person in the crowd, and to share a story, then it all began to fall together naturally. I was much calmer than I thought I would be.”

“You were magnificent, Poppet, of that I can assure you.”

“More than that,” Eskel said.

Lambert groaned and stood to find the bartender so that he might refill his pint.

“It is why I wish to bring Miss Daven to Kaer Morhen once she has passed,” Eskel went on. “So that I might obtain permission to have her as my bard.”

Jaskier, to his own embarrassment, had taken a sip of his ale at precisely the wrong moment, and was unable to contain his shock before he had instinctively spat it out again.

“What the fuck!?”

* * *

While most often she simply created a portal and took that directly to Aretuza, today was so fine that Yennefer resolved to walk. The warmth of spring would soon give way to the direct heat of summer and she did not wish to walk out in such conditions, and so decided it would be best to take advantage of such days while she could, with the cool breeze and the hint of morning dew hanging in the air.

She was in a fine mood, the finest of moods, for Lady Fringilla had at last seen fit to end her visit to the county. The sorceress had gone to London, and from there, who knew? Those who had spoken with her said she had not made her plans in stone but they expected her to return to Europe altogether within a month or so.

Yennefer could not contain her joy and enjoyed the walk to Aretuza as she had rarely enjoyed anything else for some time.

When she reached the hill that would lead her down to the school, however, she paused.

Was that not Calanthe’s carriage in the front walk?

Unsure, and feeling an odd sense of trespass, Yennefer stood still and watched as the carriage made its way along the path out of the grounds and away down the road.

She felt rather as she had when she was a student, and would sneak into Tissaia’s office in order to cause chaos, or into the library at night to read those books on magic she believed herself to be prepared for, and which Tissaia had forbidden her.

Why should Calanthe be at Aretuza, if indeed it was Calanthe? But who else could it be? Cintra was the finest estate in the county, and Calanthe’s carriages were a cut above those held by Lettenhove, the only other that might compete with Calanthe for both social standing and finances.

Yennefer made her way down the hill and entered Aretuza by way of the front door, an act which startled one of the servants, the poor man obviously used as the rest of them to Yennefer merely magicking her way in.

Tissaia was in the act of organizing some papers in her office. “Ah, Yenna.” She paused. “You look quite… flushed.”

“I walked here,” Yennefer replied. “It is a lovely day, Tissaia, I implore you to join me on a circle of the grounds before tea. Unless, that is, you have urgent business to attend to, I thought I saw a carriage…”

“Nothing that cannot wait,” Tissaia replied. She offered up no explanation for the carriage. “If you are insistent on a walk then a walk we can have, the students are settled for the day.”

Yennefer tucked her arm into Tissaia’s, her footsteps slow but her mind in a race. Why would Tissaia not tell her if Calanthe had visited? Surely such an event would be of great significance. Could Yennefer have been mistaken in the owner of the carriage?

Whoever the owner might be, however, Tissaia did not seem to have an interest in disclosing the matter to her.

And that concerned her.

* * *

Eskel laughed at Jaskier’s reaction and heartily thumped him on the back to assist him in breathing. “I apologize, it seems we have startled you.”

“I know it is sudden,” Essi said. She sounded almost ashamed. “But…”

Noises came from the direction of the bar and Eskel grimaced. “I fear I must go check on Lambert…”

He stood and squeezed his way out of the booth. Once they were alone, Jaskier took advantage of the opportunity to seize Essi’s hand.

“Poppet. He is a most amiable man, and would endeavor to make you happy in your career, but are you certain you are not simply choosing the first Witcher who has asked you to partner with him?”

Essi went scarlet. “Jaskier, you seem to be under the impression that I have said yes to Eskel out of a sense of desperation. I can assure you, my choice was made out of affection.”

Jaskier’s head was in an absolute whirl. “Then there is… is there none other you… I had thought…”

Essi tilted her head, her hair falling across her face so that only one blue eye could be seen. “Jaskier, for whom did you think I had designs? Lambert?” She laughed lightly. “While I do suspect he is all bark and very little bite, he is not the sort with whom I could build a partnership. Besides, Eskel and I…” She squeezed Jaskier’s hand. “I know it is a short time, but I feel that when one is certain—well, one is certain. I have lost my family, and I do not wish to waste any time hemming and hawing over semantics and possibly lose someone else of whom I have grown…”

She leaned inward. “Jaskier, the last two days of travel, you have no idea—and he is so kind and—it is not merely that I wish to be his bard, I wish to be more, and I—believe him to be of the same mind.”

Jaskier did not know how to say that he had thought she harbored an affection for Geralt, and he certainly did not know how to explain to her that Geralt’s actions clearly showed a deep affection for her. His heart broke on Geralt’s behalf. He had gone and insulted him most dreadfully a year ago and now Essi had chosen someone else.

“Oh, please, Jaskier, do not call me rash, do not say I have chosen poorly.” Essi sounded greatly distressed.

“No, no, Poppet, I would never say such a thing.” He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and kissed her forehead. “Eskel is a fine Witcher and a fine man. Anyone should be lucky to be his partner in both senses of the word. I am only surprised, that is all.”

“Eskel has said he must take me to Kaer Morhen in order to obtain permission from his grandmaster,” Essi said. She offered up a shy smile. “I am terribly intimidated. Will you accompany us? Please?”

Jaskier swallowed. Geralt was at Kaer Morhen—but how was he to refuse Essi? He could not possibly abandon her and allow her to be surrounded by strangers, not sweet shy Essi Daven. And if Vesemir for some reason did say no, Essi would need someone to comfort and cradle her broken heart.

Not that Jaskier expected there to be any kind of objection from Vesemir. The man surely could not fail to see the value and light in Essi. Nobody could.

Perhaps—no, his presence could not assist Geralt in recovering the pieces of his heart. It would only serve to rub salt into the wound and add insult to injury.

“Jaskier?” Essi tapped his forehead. “Are you quite all right? You… went somewhere else.”

He shook himself. “I am quite all right my dear. Are you certain that you wish for me to join you?”

“Oh, I should be terrified without you! You handle Lambert so well, and Geralt is in a much better temper when he is in your presence. You understand Witchers and I am still quite new to all of this.” Essi smiled. “Besides! I owe my success to you.”

She owed it to Geralt, but Jaskier knew not how to say that with Eskel and Lambert headed back their way. He could not risk revealing the secret when Geralt so earnestly desired for it to be kept quiet.

Essi tilted her head at him and continued to smile winningly. Fuck. Jaskier could not refuse her when she gazed at him with such a sweet expression.

“Very well. If it is truly what you wish, I shall accompany you to Kaer Morhen.”

Essi gave a noise of delight at the same moment that Eskel returned to their table, with an angered and, oddly, dripping-wet Lambert in tow. “You seem to be in a pleasant mood,” Eskel noted.

“Jaskier has agreed to join us on our trip to Kaer Morhen!” Essi declared.

Lambert took up an expression of great dismay. “Oh. Wonderful.”

“That is indeed excellent news,” Eskel said. “Geralt has already arrived there. It will be a pleasant surprise for him to see you again, I am sure.”

…pleasant. Yes.

That was precisely the word that Jaskier would have used.


	18. Chapter 18

Yennefer did not understand what Tissaia had in mind with these meetings, or why she would not share their contents or even their existence with Yennefer.

She had many a time now over the past few weeks observed Calanthe’s carriage at Aretuza, and indeed once or twice she had even heard rumors among the students of Tissaia calling upon Cintra in the mornings. And yet every hint that Yennefer cared to drop would not be picked up by Tissaia. Rather, the woman would steer the subject in another directly entirely.

Yennefer could not have said why, but it frightened her. It had been years since Tissaia had hid something from her. Ever since she had returned to Aretuza and apologized for her headstrong behavior, Tissaia had been gracious enough to share with her all matters concerning Aretuza—and matters concerning Aretuza were matters that concerned Tissaia equally.

Now, there was set before her an aspect of Tissaia’s life in which Yennefer could not take part, and she feared what that might mean.

It was an odd coincidence that Tissaia’s meetings with Calanthe had begun, or so they seemed to have begun, when Lady Fringilla had quit the county. Yennefer resolved to bring up the latter, then, at tea to see if she could not make any headway in that matter either.

“I was surprised to learn of Lady Fringilla’s leaving quite so suddenly,” Yennefer noted.

“When she learned that her aim was not to hit its mark, I am sure she saw no point in remaining in the area,” Tissaia replied.

“Then she did have an aim.” Yennefer arched her brow. “She had designs upon you, as I had feared.”

“Designs upon me. Yenna, you make it sound as though she were the evil count in one of those Gothic romances the students are forever smuggling into their bedrooms to read at night.” Tissaia stirred her tea. “I am not a passive virginal young maiden who is to be trapped into a nightmarish marriage.”

“I thought the _Castle of Otranto_ quite entertaining,” Yennefer muttered as she sipped her tea.

As she had hoped, Tissaia’s eye twitched, but the other woman valiantly restrained herself from launching into a passionate diatribe about the poor plot and writing quality of such a publication.

“I only meant,” Yennefer continued, “that I thought her to be taking liberties in your relationship and so was led to suspect she hoped for a greater and perhaps complete intimacy between the two of you.”

“Lady Fringilla is the same age that you are, Yenna, I highly doubt she saw a woman of my years to be a desired romantic partner.”

“Whyever not?” Yennefer found an odd frustration stirring in her. “You are elegant, a brilliant woman, quite accomplished, and possessed of striking features that are so rare in this country of fainting flowers and pale ladies such as Sabrina Pankratz. Any person should feel a perfect right to view you as an object of desire—” She caught her indescrete words and hastily added, “—for marriage.”

Tissaia looked altogether frozen. After a moment she sipped her tea once more, two spots of color high on her cheeks. Yennefer stared down at her own cup, ashamed of her words, and yet unsure why she would be.

At last Tissaia spoke. “Lady Fringilla’s aims were entirely professional. She was aware of the pressure the council has placed upon me since the unfortunate incidents of the past, and hoped to gain my favor and secure a high post at this school. However, her mercenary manner was not one to which I would assign… favor.”

“I am surprised,” Yennfer admitted. “She seemed to me the very picture of elegance, a fine lady, and certainly an accomplished sorceress. I could think of no reason why you would not wish for her to take up a post here. As for mercenary, you have been quite ruthless yourself in the past.”

“That is precisely why Aretuza does not need another person of my nature. It needs someone who will serve as a counterbalance.”

“Hiring Vilgefortz will certainly assist in that.”

“He is one step in the process, yes. I wish to have a more varied party of instructors here, but of course the council must have their own ways as well.” Tissaia finished off her tea.

Yennefer swallowed. “I had thought you would appreciate her… demeanor.”

Tissaia looked at her for a long moment—one of those moments in which Yennefer felt as though Tissaia were taking a stiletto knife and carefully, precisely cracking open her ribs to stare unyielding into the heart of her. How she had hated that look when she was a student. She did not know if she still hated it now.

“I do not regret my choice to have you attend Aretuza,” Tissaia said. “Indeed I would not waste your breath in being envious or jealous of Lady Fringilla. Especially when the shoe is on the other foot.”

Yennefer set her teacup down. “It is because of me that she has left,” she said in a spirit of realization. “I knew that—or rather I suspected—I stole her place at Aretuza and she has wished to injure me, has she not? Tissaia. You cannot tell me that my instincts are wrong now.”

Tissaia reached across the table and gently tilted Yennefer’s face towards hers, her fingertips soft upon the curve of Yennefer’s jaw. “Humility is something I have wished for you to improve upon but there is a difference between humility and attempting to apologize for the envy of others. We know better than to apologize for who we are, for being more powerful or more accomplished than others, do we not?”

She had said something quite similar to Yennefer once, when Yennefer had first been a student and recovering from her ill-fated attempt to control herself and her life by ending it.

Yennefer’s fingers found her inner wrists. Tissaia caught her fingers, quicker than a striking snake, and squeezed them tightly. Yennefer’s breath caught at the intensity of the touch, at the look in Tissaia’s eyes.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, we know better than to apologize.”

“Mrs. Pankratz and Mrs. Merigold have invited us to dine with them. It appears their brother is out of town and they wish for company.” Tissaia withdrew her fingers, as if her previous intensity had not even occurred. “I think a dinner between Aretuza sorceresses will do us both good, what say you?”

Yennefer managed to unstick her tongue from the roof of her mouth. “I think it a very wise idea,” she said at last.

Tissaia bestowed a small yet warm smile upon her, and Yennefer felt simultaneously hot and cold, in light and in shadow, reassured and yet still wondering what it was that Tissaia kept from her, this one secret of secrets.

* * *

Geralt did not intend to stay long at Kaer Morhen. There were hunts to be getting on with, and he thought it best that he threw himself into some work as a distraction from all that had occurred within the last few weeks.

Being parted from Ciri was not, perhaps, wise, but he was not far and could dispatch himself to Cintra at a moment’s notice should the need arise—and Calanthe would be grateful for his absence.

Whether it was his avoidance of Cintra, or the memory of Jaskier, he found himself unable to sleep. Exhausting himself on a few hunts was the best thing he could think up for a solution, unless he wished to tell Vesemir about his plight and then experience the exquisite agony of his father figure knowing about his unrequited romance as though he were some gangling idiot of fourteen rather than a grown man well into his thirties.

Vesemir, however, prevailed upon him to stay. “Eskel and Lambert are set to return and have sent a letter on ahead. Eskel has granted us with good news—he is to present a bard for possible partnership.”

Geralt’s heart, which he had thought could not possibly sink any lower, managed to prove him wrong by making a valiant effort to dig a hole in the floor. “Hmm.”

“You do not sound surprised,” Vesemir noted.

“Eskel is blessed by a happy disposition and the easy affability that ensures him many friends. I am only surprised it took him so long to find one.”

“Simply because there are many who find Eskel suitable to them does not ensure that they will be suitable to Eskel.” Vesemir was not the sort to give himself over to smiles, but he had an air of satisfaction about him. “I am certain he will have made a good choice.”

“Undoubtedly. I can vouch for it.”

“Do you know the bard?”

Geralt swallowed. “Yes. A better partner for Eskel could not be hoped for.”

“Good. If only we could find one for Lambert, it might put him in a better temper.”

“Hmm.”

There it was. Geralt had known the news would come in time, and yet the hearing of it was a blow as great as any that came from surprise. Eskel would request that Jaskier be made his partner, and Vesemir could hardly find fault in such a choice, and the two of them would work together and, quite possibly…

Geralt turned away. “I am off to take on a contract.”

“And miss such a momentous occasion? You must stay.” Vesemir’s tone brooked no argument.

Geralt bit his tongue. “Hmm.”

Destiny, it seemed, saw fit to laugh at him once more.

* * *

Jaskier could hardly contain his astonishment as Kaer Morhen came into view. An imposing place, at one with the craggy, rocky landscape of the north, he quickly enthused to Eskel the inspiration to a poet such a location could give.

“It’s just a fucking ruined castle,” Lambert muttered. “Dozens like it across the country.”

“I shall pen a tale of a castle such as this,” Jaskier declared with good cheer. “And the horribly ill-tempered beast who roamed it.”

Lambert glared at him.

Essi appeared to be more intimidated than inspired by the castle with its gloomy, ancient air and high walls, and Jaskier noted how Eskel drew his horse close to hers as they approached, his gaze fixed upon her. The Witcher had gifted her with his cloak earlier that morning when Essi had begun to shiver, her own coat insufficient to protect her from the northern cold, and Jaskier was certain that Essi had been right in having her romantic hopes returned.

It made him fear deeply for Geralt.

“Noticed it, have you?” Lambert grumbled beside him. “Couldn’t be more obvious if he hung a bloody sign around his neck.”

“I confess I had no idea, none at all, until Essi told me she had accepted his offer of being his bard.”

Lambert snorted. “Humans. Impossible. You never catch a hint.”

“All right then, Mr. Witcher, what sort of hints might I catch onto?”

“Scent’s important.” Lambert nodded towards the pair. “Giving clothes. That sort of shit. Presenting gifts, too. We’re not ones for words. But there’s something in us. Something that wants to take care of the people we love. A Witcher starts making sure you smell like ‘em, starts gifting you things, asking if you want dinner—you can be certain some shit’s stinking.”

“You have such a way of describing romance, Lambert, truly you ought to have been a poet. You have missed your true calling.”

Even as he jabbed at Lambert, his mind raced. No wonder Mousesack had wished for him to wear Geralt’s clothes at Netherfield. The druid had been teasing Geralt, and most cruelly in Jaskier’s opinion. The giving of gifts…

“Lambert. You did not, by any chance, procure a lute on my behalf?”

“The elven one? Fuck, do I look like I have that kind of coin on me, bard?”

Jaskier’s heart skipped a beat—but surely he could not—

They rode into the courtyard, where Eskel promptly dismounted and held his hands up to Essi, lifting her off her horse and setting her gently on the ground.

Jaskier’s heart rang in his ears like echoing drums and he struggled to maintain his composure as he dismounted. Geralt had given Essi the blue pearl, he had addressed Marx for her, exposed his past for her, it was for Essi whom he cared. It must be.

“Ah, Geralt!” Eskel called out.

Jaskier kept his face firmly on his horse, his back to them—and then told himself he was selfish. Geralt would need a friend, or at least a person with sympathy, in the following moments.

He turned to face the others as Geralt, who appeared to have just been either about to go on a ride or returned from one, turned from the stables and with an air of obvious reluctance approached them all.

Jaskier felt the corners of his mouth turning down into a frown. Geralt looked exhausted, as he had that one night at Cintra. Was he struggling once more to sleep?

“Geralt, I believe you two have previously made a passing acquaintance,” Eskel said. In a gesture of great intimacy, he wrapped his arm about Essi’s shoulders. “But it would be my honor to introduce to you formally Miss Essi Daven, my chosen bard.”

Geralt stopped in his tracks and his face underwent an odd spasm—and then, out of all strange things, he looked over at Jaskier.

“The fuck?” Geralt asked.

“That’s what I said!” Lambert announced in a tone of great validation.

Jaskier might very well ask the same thing.

* * *

Geralt was astounded. Miss Davne was a fine poet, perhaps even a great one. He could not deny her excellence in that regard. And a sweet girl she might be, yes. But good poets abounded, and sweet girls were to be found in every town, yet there were precious few Jaskiers in the world. To have someone such as Jaskier in front of him and to give them up for an Essi Daven—!

He stared at Jaskier as Eskel continued to speak of his hopes and of Miss Daven’s fine performance at Oxenfurt, how she had impressed the professors with her fine mastership of the craft. Jaskier betrayed no sign of heartache—but of course he would not, the ride to Kaer Morhen was not made in a day. He must have had some time to grow used to the disappointment.

Lambert walked over and clapped him on the shoulder as Eskel, still filling the air with his genial speech, guided Mis Daven towards the front doors.

“I talked you up to him,” Lambert grunted under his breath. “Explained a few things. You’re welcome.”

He patted Geralt on the shoulder, hard, and then strode off after the two—well. Miss Daven wore Eskel’s cloak, and blushed at his every word. Not merely professional partners, then, but romantic ones. It might not have attracted the notice of a human, but to all the Witchers, Essi Daven in Eskel’s clothes, bearing his scent, was as strong of a declaration as any wedding ring.

Eskel _would_ be the sort to fall quite hard and fast. Geralt only could not understand why it had been for Miss Daven when Jaskier was also in front of him.

He must offer—some condolence, some words of reassurance—he looked to Jaskier.

Jaskier fiddled with his lute strap. He had brough the elven lute. Why that should settle something in Geralt, he did not know.

“Have you been sleeping?” Jaskier asked.

That he should find concern for Geralt at such a time when his hopes of being partnered with a Witcher were dashed spoke volumes towards his compassionate nature. “How could you tell?”

“You look a trifle more feral than usual.” Jaskier appeared to be trying for a joke.

“I won’t go near any small children, then.”

Jaskier seemed surprised by his own laugh as it flew out of him. “Well, you are not so tired you have lost your sense of humor, that is a comfort.” His expression softened. “I wish that I could have prevented it, Geralt. I truly do.”

Prevented what? Geralt’s lack of sleep? “You… seem to be in a fine humor, at least. I hope that you are… handling it all well.”

Jaskier squinted at him, his nose wrinkling up as it did when he was confused. “Ah, yes, it has been a rather strange few weeks but nothing I cannot endure. I dare say I have had worse ones. Um.” He fiddled more with his lute strap. “I ought to—Essi wished for me to be here, I believe her to be afraid that your grandmaster will ask her to perform some variety of tests or some sort.”

He bowed, and followed the others inside.

Geralt stared after him. To be sure, he had never seen Jaskier in the throes of heartbreak before, but… perhaps the man was better at masking his emotions than Geralt, who had already thought him an expert, had realized.

There could be no other possible explanation.

* * *

Yennefer had no one else to whom she could apply.

“Why should she not _tell_ me about Mrs. Rhiannon visiting, if indeed it is she?” Yennefer asked.

Triss paused in their walk through the Lettenhove garden so that she might observe the growth of some roses. “Miss de Vries is allowed her privacy, Yennefer.”

“She has never hid anything from me. Not in years, why should she do so now? What reason could there be?”

Triss appeared hesitant. “You said that Miss de Vries was alarmed at the thought of Lady Fringilla having personal designs upon her.”

“Yes. She said specifically that someone much younger than she is finding anything in her worthwhile to marry to be ridiculous.”

“But not, perhaps, someone who is of the same age.”

Yennefer stared at her friend. “And what is your aim with such remarks?”

“I do not wish to cause distress. I could very well be mistaken in my thoughts. It is only that you and I both know that Miss de Vries has long hoped to forge a sort of reconciliation with Cintra. And Mrs. Rhiannon has repeatedly refused the attentions of Mr. Tuirseach. And it has been some years since Miss de Vries has had any sort of… companion… and even she must find herself facing loneliness at times.” Triss smiled gently at the sky. “Miss de Vries and I are unalike in many ways, yet in love, I suspect, we are similar—we are private creatures. If she and Mrs. Rhiannon are courting, of course Miss de Vries would wish for privacy, to avoid such wagging tongues as those that populate our neighborhood. They will wish to wait and announce it only once all is settled.”

For once, words completely failed Yennefer. She could only stare, and Triss, who was disposed towards quiet by her nature, continued walking in a comfortable silence without any apparent notice towards her companion’s distress.

Calanthe? Tissaia, who had so long been wary of the Lioness, and the woman who had so long made it known that she distrusted those who came from the school of Aretuza—to be married? No. No, it could not happen, it would not happen, Yennefer would not allow such a thing.

But why should she not allow it? Why would it be so terrifying, so abominable to her, that Calanthe should propose to Tissaia if she wished it? The match would be a good one. Two ladies of such breeding and power, united together, could not be met with dismay. And it would at last mend the great rift between the estate of Cintra and the magical school. And yet Yennefer greeted the news with such a fury her hands shook.

Why should Tissaia not be married to Calanthe?

It darted through her, with the speed of an arrow, that Tissaia must marry no one but herself!

“Yennefer?” Triss turned back and Yennefer realized she had stood still in the path while Triss had continued on, until a good number of feet separated them. “Are you well?”

She had never been less well in her entire life. Her heart was filled with lead and yet her bones were hollow and threatened to carry her away.

Tissaia, _her_ Tissaia, must belong to none other, and yet she had not known the true depth of such convictions until the moment when Tissaia might very well be taken away. Every touch she had bestowed, every need for closeness and claiming, every moment with Tissaia was now shown in a new and blinding light.

How long had she been in love with Tissaia and entirely unaware of it? How could she have failed, so utterly, in the examination of her own heart? It was Tissaia to whom she kept returning, Tissaia who was her home, Tissaia her one constant and consolation.

“Quite well, Triss, quite well,” she managed. She drew herself up. “It is merely a diverting thought, that Miss de Vries and Mrs. Rhiannon should be joined in such a manner. I should enter into a wager with you about it, if I were disposed towards such things.”

“Oh, no.” Triss laughed. “I was tutored by you, Yennefer, I know better than to gamble at a game that you have set.”

Yennefer walked up to join her and did her best to leave her scattered thoughts behind her on the path until such time she was alone and could pick them up again.

_I am in love with Tissaia de Vries._

The one person in the world that could never, and would never, feel such a thing for her in return.

* * *

Jaskier found Vesemir, the grandmaster of Kaer Morhen, to be not at all the sort of man he had pictured in his mind.

When Marx had spoken of the man, Jaskier had pictured someone of a much more genial and sociable nature than Geralt, someone who was perfectly capable of making political alliances with those from bardic universities and other Witcher schools. Once he had read Geralt’s letter, a new idea had formed of a man who was as stoic and silent as Geralt himself.

The truth turned out to be somewhat in the middle. Vesemir had a patient and thoughtful air about him that Jaskier appreciated, and yet he felt almost as though he had entered a fencing match, and that every single one of his movements and words was recorded and calculated against in preparation. There was obviously much under the surface, as with Geralt, but unlike Geralt, Vesemir had a more paternal and gentle air—one obviously cultivated after years of raising and training young boys.

This air was assisted by his features, which while not what one would call handsome, were not so severe as to invoke concern. He had the sort of face, Jaskier decided, that was so perfectly composed as to set one at ease, even if Jaskier doubted the man had ever been the sort to walk into a room and instantly break hearts.

“Vesemir.” Eskel clearly could not have kept the smile off his features for the world. “Allow me to introduce Miss Essi Daven. She is the woman I wish to have as my bard.”

Essi curtsied. “It is an honor, Grandmaster.”

Eskel gestured at Jaskier. “This is Jaskier, a fellow bard, and a dear friend of Essi’s. While he has no particular Witcher, I thought it a fine idea to introduce you to him nonetheless. Perhaps you can find him a worthy partner at last.”

“Hmm,” Vesemir said, and Jaskier nearly burst out into slightly hysterical laughter.

Poor Essi, however, trembled, and Jaskier placed a hand on her shoulder, which steadied her at once.

“Eskel has told me much about you,” Essi said. “I feel as if I know you already. If you would like I can play for you any song for an audition piece, and I have my paperwork in hand from Oxenfurt. The circumstances under which I obtained my certification and diploma are unusual, I know, and so if you require further proof of my suitability, it is no trouble at all to demonstrate for you.”

Jaskier squeezed her shoulder in a silent affirmation of his support and his belief that her speech was well done.

Vesemir fixed his eye upon Eskel. “I do not think such tests will be needed. Perhaps, Miss Daven, you might take a short walk with me while Eskel reacquaints himself with the smithy.”

Miss Daven threw an alarmed look at Eskel, but he smiled encouragingly and she allowed herself to be led away.

“The smithy?” Jaskier inquired once they were alone.

“Ah.” Eskel gave an embarrassed chuckle. “For metalwork. Vesemir has rightly observed my particular favor towards Miss Daven and wishes for me to make an honest woman out of her.”

Metalwork, the smithy—ah! For a ring.

“I had wondered if things stood in that corner, since Essi told me of your intended partnership,” Jaskier admitted. “But I was unsure. It is all quite… fast.”

“When you know, you know,” Eskel replied, and he went off—presumably to the blacksmith’s.

Jaskier found himself standing alone in the castle.

Well. He had never been one for idleness. He immediately set out to find a good walk, perhaps up along the ramparts, or what remained of them. The idea that this could have been his—that he could have been in Essi’s place, presented to Vesemir as Geralt’s bard—did not escape him, and he found himself in desperate need of fresh air to combat the thoughts of terrible self-loathing that plagued him.

The stairs that led up to the ramparts were in a tight corkscrew, for strategic defense, and the stone was quite cold, but Jaskier—now in the sort of determined moods that Sabrina often told him would land him in the worst sort of trouble—was undeterred and continued on his way.

Once he reached the top, he considered it all worth it, for the view that was presented to him was a rare one. He could see quite clearly for miles, out across the highlands, a magnificent rolling quilt of wild green.

Below him he could see the courtyard of the castle, where Essi and Vesemir appeared to deep in conversation as they strolled. That would have been him, a year ago, had he said yes to Geralt. He would be assessed by the older Witcher to ensure his worthiness.

Would Vesemir have found him to be equal to Geralt? Would the grandmaster have approved of their partnership?

He did not know, and now would never know. He had not seen Geralt since the courtyard meeting. Was he faring well? Jaskier could not blame the man if he hid himself away to struggle with his emotions in solitude. To see Essi again only to learn she was binding herself not only professionally but personally to his brother—it had to be a cruel jest from destiny indeed.

A thinner man approached Vesemir and Essi, and the former introduced the latter. The three seemed to get on well—this must be another one of the Witchers, another brother to Geralt.

The fresh air did him good, but there was nowhere to escape the truth that whispered to him. _This could have been yours. You could have been introduced to his family. You could have had him._

“Jaskier?”

He leapt in surprise, grasping a nearby stone for support as he stumbled about and generally made a fool of himself in front of, of course, Geralt.

The White Wolf appeared as surprised as Jaskier. That is, he had his brows raised, which was the equivalent of leaping about from any other person.

“What brings you up here?” Geralt’s tones were at times hard to read given his favor of constant deadpan, but Jaskier thought he detected an element of genuine confusion.

“Well, I was unneeded by the others and thought that I might—as you know exercise does marvelous things for—I mean, I am very fond of walking,” Jaskier finished, lamely.

“I know,” Geralt said. His voice was low and rough.

“Believe me, Geralt,” Jaskier burst out, unable to hold in his apology, “I did not wish to disturb you by coming here, to your home, I meant only—Essi would not hear of me leaving her be, she is quite fond of Eskel, more than fond, but he alone cannot—she wished for an ally and I could not refuse her. I know that her presence alone must hurt you and so I—”

“Her presence?”

“Yes. Given that she has chosen Eskel.”

Geralt blinked slowly.

Jaskier huffed with frustration. The man was truly impossible—and oh how fond that thought sounded in Jaskier’s mind. “I am aware, that while you are a man who seeks to keep his thoughts to himself, you had a fondness for her, Geralt.”

“…yes?” Geralt still appeared baffled.

“And yet she has chosen a Witcher who is not yourself!” Jaskier gestured wildly in the direction of the courtyard.

“Jaskier.” Geralt sounded as though he were in the middle of sorting out a rather difficult party game riddle. “Do you mean to tell me that you had not set your hopes on becoming Eskel’s bard?”

“What? When would—why would I—now Geralt, you are teasing me, do not attempt to foist your own heartbreak off onto me by claiming I—well I will not insult Eskel and I shall not slander any man who is your brother, you and I are both aware of his amiable and charming nature but—Eskel? I should want—Eskel!?”

Jaskier grew keenly aware that his voice was rising in both pitch and hysteria, and yet he could not seem to put a stop to it.

“My—heartbreak, indeed.” Geralt began to sound testy. “I am not the sort who would push such a thing onto others, I can assure you of that.”

Jaskier felt his cheeks heat up. “Of—yes, of course, my apologies.”

Geralt looked away, out over the courtyard, and then turned his gaze back to Jaskier and blinked slowly once more. “I’m fine. My only concern is how you are faring.”

“Well,” Jaskier replied. “Quite well. As well as can be expected.”

He paused. Dare he say more? “I had no hopes for Eskel, Geralt.”

Geralt’s golden gaze tracked him, as if he were searching Jaskier out for a lie. Witchers could hear a person’s heartbeat, and Jaskier was certain Geralt could tell his was racing, but the man would find no skipped beats, no telltale hint of untruth. Jaskier had never been in love with Eskel, nor had he ever truly wished to partner with him, even though he knew the sensible thing to do would be to try to forge such a partnership.

“I thought him… an estimable match. For you.”

“I suspected as much.” Jaskier could not resist a teasing lift of his lips. “Geralt, you owe me nothing. Indeed it is I who owe you, an apology at the very least.”

“No.” Geralt’s voice was firm. “Jaskier, whatever my reasons might have been, I was… I had not been… I humiliated you. I acted rudely, I never apologized, and I thought my own reasons were enough of an excuse even though I never explained those reasons to you or sought your forgiveness. I thought my… that who I was would be enough to overcome any slight I’d given you and that was…” Geralt hummed in frustration. “I may not be good with my words but given the messes I’ve made with them I have learned I need to at least try.”

“Geralt, you gave me an entire letter of reasons as to your behavior—”

“But was an apology to you contained therein?”

Jaskier opened his mouth to say that of course there had been—and then was obliged to stop and reconsider. There was an apology of sorts for Geralt’s removal of Triss, his advocation that she abandon her pursuit of Sabrina. And he acknowledged, at the end of the letter, that Jaskier possessed every right to speak of him in unflattering terms regarding all except for Geralt’s condemnation of Marx.

Yet a formal apology was not among those statements.

Geralt hummed with satisfaction, obviously pleased to have won this particular verbal clashing of opinions.

Jaskier huffed. “Very well, Geralt, you have not apologized to me but I feel it is unnecessary given that I carried an equal share, if not an even greater one, of the animosity between us. I gave you no benefit of the doubt. My pride was pricked and so I believed the word of a stranger, I was eager to have any news that could place you lower than myself in esteem, I—I blush to think of the things that I said and did and I cannot accept any apology from you without your acknowledgment of the injuries that I dealt you.”

Geralt tilted his head at Jaskier and Jaskier dared to think that there was a certain fondness in the man’s eyes. “Hmm. Very well. If it will set your mind at ease. I accept any apology you wish to give me, and in my turn, I’m sorry.”

“Forgiven, and forgiven over again,” Jaskier assured him.

An odd whistling sound was the only warning he received before Geralt seized him and turned them both around, his back to the courtyard, as a flurry of snow blasted at the spot where they had once stood and rained down upon Geralt’s back. It was well into spring now, but this far north remnants of the winter’s chill remained and it appeared that someone had very industriously set to compiling as much of the remaining slush as they could for a furious volley.

“Lambert!” Geralt growled, his voice a roar. His eyes were narrow slits like those of a cat and practically glowed gold with his displeasure, his sharpened canines highlighted by his snarl.

His arm remained firm around Jaskier’s waist and Jaskier could not help but breathe in the scent of him, the leather, linseed oil, wild forest and a sharp metallic scent that Jaskier put down to whatever Geralt used to clean his swords, all mixed into a heady combination. He realized he had curled his fingers around the straps of Geralt’s armor and pressed his face nearly directly against Geralt’s neck, and forced himself to relinquish both.

Down in the courtyard, Lambert appeared wholly unrepentant. “Vesemir said to come down for mealtime!”

“Fuck you!” Geralt yelled in return.

Lambert went off laughing. Geralt turned, a growl stuck in his throat, and carefully dusted off Jaskier’s shoulders and hair.

“Lambert is rather good at amusing himself,” Jaskier noted. “At the expense of others appears to be his favored method.”

“Hmm.” Geralt finished cleaning Jaskier to his satisfaction and made to step away. The thought of being removed from the heat of him forced Jaskier to bite back an instinctive, unhappy noise.

Geralt looked at him quizzically, as if he had caught the catch of breath or muffled sound in Jaskier’s throat. Jaskier busied his hands with the adjustment of his lute strap. He could not take advantage and see more in a moment than Geralt wished. They had apologized and were past such matters, but Geralt’s testiness over Essi, and his confusion over Jaskier’s wish for Eskel, were proof enough of the Witcher’s own movements forward with his heart while Jaskier’s remained in the same place as before.

“We ought to go down, as Vesemir said.” Jaskier took his own step back as he spoke.

Geralt blinked slowly, and then nodded. “Hmm.”

He carefully did not touch Jaskier as he moved around him to lead the way back down the steps.

* * *

Geralt did not understand why Jaskier had not thought to attempt to draw Eskel’s favor towards himself, when Jaskier must greatly feel the impending pressure to find a Witcher soon. The bard was not in a position to turn down a proposal of partnership, and he had to be keenly aware of the closing window of opportunity.

Perhaps Jaskier had given up his hopes of partnering with a Witcher and sought a professorship, or post of a similar nature, in its stead?

Geralt recalled the words they had exchanged after the battle with the leshen. No, that was not Jaskier’s aim. He still wished to be a Witcher’s bard.

Speaking of the leshen, Geralt found himself, to his embarrassment, obliged to pause once or twice upon the stairs and brace his hand upon the wall in order to recover his breath. His wounds were mostly healed, but there remained a weakness in his chest that left his energy faster drained than he would have liked. It was only a matter of time and a rebuilding of his stamina, yet it irked him.

The knowledge that this could all be restored in an instant if he would apply to Triss or Yen was useless to him. He had asked too much of Yen already, and Triss would ask him questions about Jaskier that Geralt did not wish to, and possibly could not, answer.

“Geralt?” Jaskier, ever resourceful, twisted himself around to duck under Geralt’s outstretched arm, placing himself in the front. “I thought you had not been sleeping well. You look… as you did that night at Cintra.”

He did not need to elaborate on which night was in referral.

“Leshens are powerful. The wound is taking its time to heal.”

Jaskier placed his hand on Geralt’s armor, over the spot where the scars lay. “You ought to have rested longer. You left in a rush.”

He was seized with a great temptation to tell Jaskier the reason, that he had acted quickly, was forced to act quickly, in order to save Essi—that he had done so for Jaskier’s sake, to preserve someone for whom Jaskier cared—but to do so would be to spill all his heart out at once and after how well that had gone the last time he had tried…

Besides, it would force Jaskier to feel in a sort of debt to him. The bard would feel an obligation, and Geralt would never place the man in that sort of bind. He had not done all this so that Jaskier would owe him. He had done it in an attempt to enable Jaskier’s happiness.

“I had business to which I must attend. And I’m fine. It is healing.”

“Is it? Truly?” Jaskier’s eyes were steel. “Or are you merely saying so because you wish for me to retreat, and you are suffering because that is your way, to punish yourself ten times over for every failure you perceive in yourself?”

Geralt was grateful that silence was his usual response to all remarks he received, for at the present moment he could find nothing at all to serve as a rejoinder.

Jaskier continued to stare him down with an attitude that would have, should he have been there to witness it, impressed Vesemir greatly.

Geralt took Jaskier’s wrist in his hand and gently removed it from his armor. “It is truly healing. If it serves as a reminder of my hubris in taking the leshen on alone, then that is a welcome addition. But it heals, Jask. A slow Witcher is a dead Witcher. I would not be that reckless with myself. Even if I have given you cause to believe such about me.”

He could feel the thrum of Jaskier’s pulse under his thumb.

“I am not blessed with a Witcher’s senses,” Jaskier said, his voice oddly hushed, “but I know when you are lying to me, White Wolf, and that is lucky for you, for I know you are speaking the truth to me now.”

“A bold declaration.”

“Have you ever known me to be anything but?” Jaskier sounded amused.

He had not, it was true. Geralt fell for those who dared to be bold in a world that held such a trait at little value—Renfri, Yennefer, and Jaskier, all straining at the bit against a society of those who were only aggressive in such roundabout ways as they could get away with while maintaining dignity.

If they stayed any longer out of sight of the others, Lambert would have cause to make some rather off-color and irritating remarks at the dinner table. “We should move on.”

Jaskier slipped his hand out of Geralt’s grasp and gave an odd laugh. “Yes, we really should, shouldn’t we?”

Geralt understood from the man’s demeanor that there was a double meaning in that—but what the meaning was, he could not parse.

He stared at Jaskier’s retreating back and stored the sensation of Jaskier’s pulse into his heart, where he had a habit of recording the sensations of all of those for whom he cared—their sight, their sound, their scent—even if the recollection would later cause him pain. It was his way. He had no other.

* * *

Jaskier found that a whole pack of Witchers were, even if they were silent on an individual basis, the noisiest and most uncouth of creatures he had ever beheld.

It delighted him.

Essi found herself quite overwhelmed, but in a pleasant sort of way, and curled close to Eskel throughout the dinner. Eskel seemed to be flattered at her choice of protector, and was not sparing with his touches and looks of reassurance and warmth.

Jaskier found himself seated close to Vesemir, and fended off many questions from the eldest Witcher. He could only presume that, being a bard with no Witcher, he was a possible offering to any of the other unpartnered Witchers in the pack and so the grandmaster wished to ascertain Jaskier’s character.

He was all but certain of it when after dinner he and Essi both were applied to for performance. Essi looked to Jaskier with a pleading eye, half of her face hidden by her hair from her repeated ducking down in embarrassment or shock, and even if he had not been requested as a second player, he would have offered himself up anyhow in order to ease Essi’s burden of attention.

One of the tests Essi had been obliged to pass at Oxenfurt had been a duet in order to see if she could handle well both a partner and improvisation, but the partner in such a test had been a professor, and so Jaskier had not played with her since Lettenhove when he had assisted her in preparations for her tests.

“We must play your songs,” he assured her as they took up their posts.

“But mine are no songs for cheer and revelry,” Essi replied.

“Then we shall start with a few popular favorites, and then showcase your fine works, and then finish off with a solid love ballad, and we shall be in the clear.”

Essi gave him a look of fond consternation, but did not protest, and so they proceeded. As Jaskier had suspected, the reception of Essi’s work was greater than what she had come to expect, and the Witchers—not one of them unused to the idea of death and loss—listened with rapt attention and no small amount of surprise in their eyes.

Jaskier was certain it would not be the last time Essi would attract such astonishment. With her sweet face and manner, one would expect lighthearted love songs and a few playful, flirtatious songs that would be suitable to accompany a dance—not compositions of such depth and yearning.

Eskel had a look of such pride on his face, and affection in his eyes, that Jaskier found he could not be unhappy for them, even for Geralt’s sake. Not when they looked at one another in that manner. He could not begrudge anyone love—he was too much of a romantic at heart.

The Witchers were all quick to praise her, and Essi colored mightily. “I am not the only artist in this room,” she protested. “Jaskier himself has written his own piece…”

If she mentioned _Her Sweet Kiss,_ Jaskier vowed to induce a heart attack in the manner of his father and perish on the spot.

“…about the work of Witchers, and I find it very compelling.”

Oh _no_ , that was even worse.

Destiny continued to show him no mercy and so did not supply him with a convenient strike of lightning as all eyes turned to him. “Ah, it is, nothing, really, just a small little thing that I was…”

“Oh, Jaskier, if I have had to apply my own songs this evening then it is only fair you do so as well,” Essi said with a spirit of determination. For once, he cursed her honest nature. “Your song is equal to mine in skill and depth and I should like you to play it.”

Eskel announced his agreement, and several other Witchers nodded in assent.

Damn.

Jaskier gently strummed his lute. He could not look at Geralt. He did not want to see the expression the man’s face held. “It is rather metaphorical, and so forgive me for any fanciful turns of phrase.” He struck the opening chord.

_My boy builds coffins with hammers and nails…_

* * *

Now that Jaskier was not concentrated on distracting a leshen, Geralt could admit that his voice was being better applied than the last time he had heard Jaskier perform this song.

They had all placed themselves in a more comfortable position post-meal in order to listen to the two bards duet—and duet they did, quite well, their voices an excellent blend and obviously aware of one another’s quirks and particulars of performance. Essi’s songs raised her estimation in the eyes of all the others, Geralt could mark that clearly.

And now Jaskier sang.

Jaskier had admitted that the song was influenced by Geralt’s own career, and that he felt as a result that he had no right to perform it. The embarrassment was subtle enough that Geralt was sure he was the only one who could mark it, and he felt deeply for Jaskier, yet he could not stamp out the selfish pleasure that he was able to hear the song once again, performed how it ought to be.

As the others had found new seats for the performance, Geralt had taken advantage of the moment and found himself the spot by the back wall where the shadows lay deepest, so that he might remain as unobserved as possible.

That did not prevent Vesemir from turning his gaze upon him.

The man had raised Geralt. He knew Geralt not, in some ways, as intimately as others, but he knew Geralt as a parent knows a child, and so he knew Geralt in ways that none other could.

Vesemir said nothing. He did not even indicate, with a nod of the head or a tilt of his eyebrow, which way his thoughts ran.

He did not need to. The knowledge was in his eyes, and Geralt knew as he cut his gaze away from Vesemir and back towards Jaskier, that he had given the man all the answer he needed.

There would, Geralt was sure, be no questions. Vesemir knew when not to pry. But the man knew, now. Geralt was grateful that Witchers could not blush.

Not that a blush could have done much more to give him away, when he was certain his admiration of the firelight catching in Jaskier’s hair, the skilled fingering of the lute strings, and the rapt expression on Jaskier’s face, all shone clearly in his eyes as he watched the bard perform.

If Jaskier were to look at him, Geralt did not know how he could hide himself. Yet Jaskier did not look his way—and why should he? Why should Jaskier care?

A tap at Geralt’s shoulder alerted him to Coën’s presence. “A letter has arrived for you, from Cintra.”

Cintra. _Ciri._

Geralt tore the letter open, all else falling away, as he read the contents therein.

He was unaware that the bards had finished their performance until he smelled honeysuckle and chamomile, and looked up to see Jaskier before him.

“Coën said it was from Cintra,” Jaskier said quietly.

Geralt tilted the letter so that Jaskier might read the contents. The bard’s eyes went wide. “Have I gone mad, or am I reading this properly?”

“The latter. Cintra and Aretuza.”

Jaskier stayed silent, apparently in contemplative shock, the same as Geralt.

Geralt spoke the truth he knew was on both of their minds. “I have to return.”

“Of course—but—what does this mean for you? Are you… all right?”

Geralt tucked the letter away, forcing himself to maintain his dignity and return that concerned blue stare rather than doing as he wished and cutting his gaze away. “We’re about to find out.”


	19. Chapter 19

Jaskier had no reason to stay longer at Kaer Morhen, and since Geralt was obliged to leave at first light in the morning in order to return to Cintra, it was decided that Jaskier should travel with him so that the bard might not be forced to go the entire journey alone.

He attempted to protest that there was no need, but there was only so much protesting he could undertake before it would morph from polite refusals into an offensive denial, and the last thing he wished was to injure Geralt after everything.

Geralt had a rather pained look on his face throughout the entire proceedings. Jaskier was already aware that he was possibly the last person in the world with whom Geralt wished to spend any great deal of time, thank you kindly, he was not in need of a reminder.

The other Witchers dispersed after the meal, with most going to bed and a few remaining by the fire to play cards. Lambert appeared to be the best player in that regard.

Eskel offered his arm to Essi and asked if he might be permitted to take her up to the ramparts to view the stars. Jaskier, who was well aware what that would entail, winked at Essi as she was led away.

A throat cleared behind him and Jaskier jumped at least an inch into the air. He whirled around to find Vesemir standing directly behind him.

“Bard.” The grandmaster’s voice was deep and low, similar to Geralt’s, but where Geralt’s voice had a graveled quality to it that made Jaskier shiver, Vesemir’s was soft and smooth. “It appears we will have to put up the banns for a wedding, will we not?”

“It does appear that way, yes, grandmaster.”

Vesemir snorted slightly. “I did not take you for the type to be intimidated.”

“By you? I couldn’t possibly be.” Jaskier grinned. “Not after having dealt with two of your wolves, grandmaster. No one who has learned how to handle the likes of Geralt and Lambert could find anything new in your demeanor.”

This time, Vesemir’s snort appeared to be one of amusement. “I do not ask favors lightly, but I would be appreciative if you would have a care for Geralt on your return to Cintra.”

Jaskier blinked a few times in surprise. “I could never do anything less,” he replied.

“It is no secret that Geralt was placed above his peers during training. That has unfortunately given him a weight upon his shoulders that he has never been able to lift away. To have someone who could ease the burden in his mind, and find a way to lighten his disposition… I would be grateful.”

Jaskier could not hide his surprise. “Geralt is someone for whom I have deep respect, but I fear that you have placed me too highly in your esteem, although how, I know not. Having said that—I can ensure that I will do everything in my power to be there for Geralt. I know—I know that the mistress of Cintra is not one predisposed towards favoring him and while I may be little more than his neighbor, even if that is all I ever am, I will endeavor to support him. You have raised a good man, grandmaster.”

“Vesemir.” The older man’s eyes held a satisfied gleam. “Call me Vesemir.”

Jaskier felt as though he was back in Oxenfurt, passing a test he had not even been aware he was taking.

A scuffle sounded behind them and Jaskier was in time to see Geralt dragging Lambert and Coën away by the collars as they protested that they were only going to spy on the lovebirds a _little,_ Geralt, must you be such a bore?

Jaskier could feel the fond smile that stole over his face as he got to see Geralt in action as an elder brother, and it was only after a moment that he realized Vesemir watched him.

He turned to face the older man, and Vesemir nodded once, as if in receipt of the answer to a question, and walked off.

Jaskier stared after him, completely unsure what to do now, or even where to go. He had not been given a room, as far as he was aware, and to ask at this juncture felt like an embarrassment—

“Jaskier!”

He had no time at all to brace, only to open his arms before he was obliged to stumble back in order to counterbalance the force of Essi flying into him, arms around his neck, a whirlwind before she pulled back. Her hair was an even greater state of dishevelment than usual, and her cheeks were pink from the cold, but Jaskier had never seen her eyes shine a brighter blue.

“Ah, no, Poppet, do not tell me. Allow me to guess.” He took her face in his hands. “You have just now entered into an engagement. That charming Witcher of yours has asked, and you have given him that one-word answer that makes his heart—”

Essi covered his mouth with her hands, laughing. “Stay, stay Jaskier, do not! I beg of you!”

“You don’t wish for me to wax poetic about the starlight and the—”

“No!” Essi laughed so hard she could barely contain it and the word came out a garbled, breathless mess.

Behind her, Eskel stood, his scars made more prominent by the redness of his face, but the shy smile there banished all blemishes away.

“Don’t tease,” Geralt murmured, and Jaskier nearly smacked the man across the face as he leapt.

“You wolves have got to stop sneaking up on me or I shall die of a heart attack,” Jaskier grumbled. “Or do one of you a harm.”

Geralt arched an eyebrow. “Hmm.”

“Oh, Geralt, I must thank you as well, for all of your kindness,” Essi told him, catching Geralt’s hand earnestly.

Geralt looked slightly alarmed by the affection, and Jaskier was not surprised, for he had noted how Geralt had neatly dodged the question of Essi earlier and had turned the tide onto the subject of Jaskier pairing with Eskel.

Which—truly, what sort of man did Geralt think he was? Eskel was a perfectly lovely Witcher but he could not, as indeed none could, hold a candle to the one in front of Jaskier now. How could he turn from Geralt of Rivia and move onto Eskel? It would be as though he had turned from the ocean with all of its depths and settled for swimming in a mill pond.

Geralt handled Essi’s platitudes with a good grace, and congratulated Eskel without words but rather a warm, firm hug and a clasping of hands.

Jaskier could not entirely begrudge the two of them their happiness as they strolled arm in arm, Eskel to escort Essi to her rooms. Undoubtedly there would be at least one particular Witcher listening in to ensure propriety was kept, and Jaskier did not fancy being the fool that incurred Vesemir’s wrath.

“They drew together rather quickly, did they not?” he asked Geralt, if only to break the silence.

They were the only two who remained in the hall, the fire banked low.

“Hmm.” Geralt gestured. “I can show you to your rooms. It’s easy to grow lost in this place if you don’t know its quirks.”

“Thank you.”

Geralt turned without a word and led him down a hall. Jaskier followed, grabbing his lute as he hurried to catch up to the Witcher’s long strides. “I hope you do not think me judgmental. I am happy for them, as happy as anyone could be. Essi deserves to be so loved and valued after all she has lost and all she most recently endured.”

Geralt snorted. “Jaskier, you are incredibly judgmental.”

The way he said it, with a deep and thorough conviction, oddly turned the statement into a compliment. Or perhaps Jaskier was only hearing that which he wished to hear, and was now reading into the man’s crotchety turns of phrase with an unchecked bias.

“Well, it is only that I cannot expect to be as they are. It takes time, I feel, to properly forge a bond.”

“No one night at a masquerade and declaring undying love even to the point of drinking poison, then?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier gaped at him. “Did you just—I was not—well. I ought to have known you’d know Shakespeare. Lambert said you were a bookworm when you were a child.”

Geralt cast him a look of great suspicion. “What else did Lambert say about me?”

“That you were the best listener he knew, and that you deserved the treatment you received,” Jaskier told him honestly. “The man was full of nothing but praise for you, honestly, Geralt. I would say to ask him yourself except that I suspect he would deny all. He delights in his reputation as a curmudgeon.”

“As an arse, you mean.”

“That as well.” Jaskier grinned at him.

“I think you have the right of it,” Geralt said. Upon Jaskier’s look of confusion, he added, “In regards to Miss Daven and Eskel. It takes… time. To build trust. To learn a person’s character.”

“First impressions can be greatly mistaken, after all,” Jaskier added softly.

 _We should move on,_ Geralt had said earlier, and it was as if destiny had been speaking to Jaskier directly. He knew he ought to move on. He knew it as he knew the sun would rise in the east in a few hours’ time.

And yet he was unable to commit to such a course.

“They can be, indeed,” Geralt agreed. He paused outside a particular door. “I—made some requests. There should be extra furs for you. We do not—get as cold, as humans, nor as hot, we—regulate our temperatures differently. My room is down the hall, on the right, if you need anything.”

“Kind of you.” Jaskier grinned. “Although I do not think your grandmaster would take well to me knocking at your door in the wee, unholy hours of the morning. I suspect he is ensuring even now that Eskel goes to his own bed tonight rather than possibly infringing upon Essi’s virtue before the wedding day.”

Geralt snorted. “Jaskier, if half the things I hear about you are true, you have no virtue left to spoil.”

“That is where you have the wrong of it, Geralt. I was born without virtue, and so had none that could be spoiled in the first place.”

“I suspect the world would not find you half so endearing if you did.”

God above, he wanted to kiss the man. “It made me the most horrid hypocrite before Triss and Sabrina’s wedding. I wanted no stain upon my sister’s reputation after all our parents had dragged us through and so I insisted the two of them maintain a separation until the wedding night. They both abused me horribly for it.”

“How you have suffered,” Geralt replied, his voice soft as Jaskier had never before heard it.

“How indeed.”

Geralt’s eyes, he noted, glowed in the dark, rather like those of a cat. How odd that should make Jaskier even more fond of him.

Geralt blinked slowly, and then took a small step back. Jaskier had been unaware of how close they stood. As always when speaking with Geralt, the world had fallen away. “If you have need of anything, let me know. Goodnight, Jaskier.”

 _I have need of you._ “Goodnight, Geralt.”

He watched the Witcher’s retreating back before slipping into his room. It was a small room, obviously aired out only a few hours before in preparation for a guest, but there were indeed many lovely furs piled on the bed, and a fire still going in the hearth.

Jaskier wasted no time in preparing himself so that he might crawl under the furs and sleep. They smelled of leather and linseed oil and something else, something wild and familiar that he could not recall the name of before he fell into sleep.

* * *

Geralt saddled up the horses in the pre-dawn light, basking in the silence before anyone else in the keep had to be awake. Even Vesemir, if he was no longer in bed, would be quietly at work upon the papers at his desk and not creating any sound that Geralt’s ears could detect from the stables. It was all blessed peace in the soft darkness that enveloped the world before dawn.

“Ah, there you are.”

…and now Lambert was there. Fuck. There went his peacefulness.

His brother strode over to him. “Wondered if I’d be able to catch you before you set out. Where’s your bard?”

“He’s not my bard.” It was precisely the wrong thing to say, of course, for Lambert would latch onto it as if he were a dog with a bone, but Geralt could not allow such misconceptions to continue and be announced where Jaskier might overhear them. “And he’s asleep. I’ll wake him once I’ve finished readying the horses.”

“So considerate.” Lambert leaned casually against the stable wall and folded his arms. “You know, Geralt, I have known you almost since the days of our birth, and yet never once have you been a coward until now.”

Geralt sent him a glare that would have had Eskel or Coën cowering. Lambert only smirked.

“Anyone with eyes can see the way that you dote on him. I can smell it on you, whenever you gaze upon him, which let me tell you is pretty bloody often.”

Geralt finished with the horses and took them by the reins to lead them out. With Eskel, he could adopt a stony silence and his brother would allow the matter to drop. But with Lambert, there was only one recourse for a situation such as this: blunt honesty.

He looked his brother in the eye. “I already asked him. Last year. He said no.”

Lambert’s eyebrows climbed all the way up to his hairline. The shock was evident on his face, but then a look of surprising sympathy came into his eyes. “People can change their minds, Geralt. And I think that man’s changed his. He practically shakes, keeping himself from looking at you. I wondered why he smelled of guilt and shame, guess now we know.”

“Are you suggesting your senses are better than mine?” If Jaskier had any sort of feelings regarding him, then Geralt would have sensed it by now.

“No. I’m suggesting you’re blinded by your own fucking self-loathing, you prick.” Lambert punched him in the arm. “You’ve got several days alone with him. Make the most of ‘em.”

“Hmm.”

Perhaps Lambert did feel a sense of guilt in regards to forcing Geralt to speak of such things, for he took the horses out of the stables so that Geralt might say farewell to Vesemir and wake up Jaskier.

Jaskier dressed quickly and made no complaints about the early hour, although he did yawn prodigiously and his hair remained adorably sleep-rumpled. Geralt wrestled between his two instincts, and his better one won out, so he resisted the urge to pull Jaskier into him and bury his nose in the man’s neck to get a proper inhalation of what Jaskier smelled like freshly awake from sleep.

Instead, he led Jaskier to the courtyard. The bard remained silent, although he and Lambert shared a clasping of hands, which was far more deference than Lambert gave to most, and as they set off, Jaskier appeared to have a melancholy air about him.

“I apologize for the early hour,” Geralt noted, certain that was the cause of the bard’s discontent.

“Mm?” Jaskier shook himself, as if to banish the cobwebs from his mind. “Oh, it is no bother at all, Geralt, I should be in the way and useless there and Essi and Eskel should have no need of a third party. Sabrina and Triss have done without me long enough in any case and I shall not be surprised if a letter was sent to me in Oxenfurt to instruct me to return home posthaste.”

He smiled, soft as dawn. “I am only sad to have no better reason to stay in Kaer Morhen for a longer time. I should have liked to take a crack at your library, and see the training.”

“Most find it inhospitable,” Geralt admitted, his throat tight.

“What, should a little chill in the air deter me? I found it all to be fascinating and as a bard I would make a rather poor Witcher’s companion if I did not find something to my liking at the heart of where Witchers are raised and reside. Is that not so?”

“Hmm.” Geralt looked away so that he might not give himself up by a look or a gesture.

He wished to tell Jaskier that Kaer Morhen could always be open to him, and that it would be no trouble at all—indeed quite the opposite—if Jaskier were to stay with him in Kaer Morhen, if Jaskier were to allow Geralt to show him every corner, to assist him in the library, to press every inch of _home_ into Jaskier until Jaskier viewed the castle as his own.

Geralt tightened his hold on Roach’s reins. Jaskier, obviously still quite tired, fell into a comfortable silence. Geralt found he missed the bard’s unending chatter, but would not force the man to talk if he was unable.

_People can change their minds, Geralt. You’ve got several days alone with him. Make the most of them._

Dare he?

* * *

Yennefer had never before in her life been so gratified to see Sabrina Pankratz. She swept into Lettenhove and put on no theatrics in her manner when she took Sabrina’s hands in hers and greeted her with a warm smile.

“It has been far too long since we spent an evening together, only us magical practitioners,” Yennefer declared. “You have quite the glow about you, Sabrina.”

“Ask not how I came by it,” Sabrina replied dryly.

“Yennefer!” Triss seized her. “Oh, it is good of you to come! Our poor house has been far too silent and empty since Jaskier took his leave of us.”

“It is a silence to which we must grow accustomed,” Sabrina noted, “if Jaskier is, as we hope he shall be, successful in his profession he will be gone most of the year on hunts and performances.”

“I see I am not terribly late,” Tissaia said, entering the foyer.

Yennefer’s heart stuck in her throat. She had not seen Tissaia since her revelation in the back garden with Triss. Now she had no idea how to act, where to place her hands, her gaze, her thoughts. Her usual methods of interaction with Tissaia—her wildly inappropriate habits, she now realized—would not do, for they would carry with them the knowledge of her emotions and so would give her away. No longer could she be carefree as she flung her arms about Tissaia’s neck or kissed her cheek. She would be too careful, and in being careful, she would announce her revelation.

Tissaia greeted Sabrina and Triss with the same courteousness, but without the enthusiasm that Yennefer had bestowed. Between Sabrina and Tissaia there had only ever existed the respect of teacher and student, and Triss was far too intimidated even after so many years to dare to take Tissaia’s hands and greet her in a more friendly manner. Tissaia was not one who invited intimacy.

“Yenna.” Tissaia crossed to her at last and Yennefer found herself at a loss.

Tissaia did not frown, she was not the sort, but her mouth did tighten. “You seem ill at ease, are you quite well?”

She tucked a lock of errant hair behind Yennefer’s ear, her fingertips ever so slightly grazing the curve of Yennefer’s jaw as she pulled them away, and Yennefer fought the instinct to seize Tissaia and demand a firmer touch.

“I had a rather occupying day, that is all.” Yennefer managed to sound airy and dismissive. “The place has quite fallen to pieces while I was dealing with matters in Oxenfurt.”

“Ah, yes.” Tissaia squeezed her hand gently. “I am quite proud of you interference on behalf of that young girl, Yenna, it was well done.”

It was Geralt’s doing, not hers, although she did suppose she had helped in using her magic to track the little weasel down and transport him and Geralt hither and yon. It did not sit well with her, that she should take all credit, but there was nothing else for it—Geralt would rather die than have the truth be known and she must respect his choices.

“Thank you,” she said aloud.

Was her voice too loud, or too quiet? Too breathy? Did her eyes betray her?

Sabrina announced the readiness of their meal and led them in the dining room. It was a small and intimate evening, one that under normal circumstances Yennefer would eagerly welcome as a valued opportunity, and yet now it was as dreaded as a guillotine.

She waited with bated breath for any of the talk to turn onto the matter of Cintra, or even the future of Aretuza, and yet both Sabrina and Triss seemed to be unconsciously avoiding both subjects.

It would not have been unconscious, not after her conversation with Triss earlier—had Triss asked her wife to stay away from such talk in order to provide Tissaia with privacy? Yennefer cursed her friend’s sense of empathy.

“Where has Jaskier gone off to?” she asked instead, poking at her food.

“He has been at Oxenfurt, but he ought to be back any day now,” Sabrina replied.

“Ah, he went with Miss Daven, did he?”

“Yes, and we cannot thank you enough for your kindness in regards to her. Julian sees her as family.”

“What sort of family, if I may inquire?” Yennefer felt a stab of sympathy for Geralt.

Sabrina let out a noise as if the idea of Yennefer’s suggestion was the most absurd thing she had ever heard. “As a younger sister. Apparently she followed him and her elder sister about like a duckling during Julian’s Oxenfurt days.”

Yennefer could easily picture Jaskier indulging such a girl. Very well, she could return to her certainty that Geralt had more reason to hope than he suspected.

“Not that Jaskier has any want of potential suitors,” Triss said loyally.

“He had far too many in Oxenfurt,” Sabrina grumbled to herself.

Yennefer laughed. “Why, Sabrina, I do believe I saw a crack in your demeanor there, could it be so?”

“Do not tease my darling,” Triss replied. “She gets quite enough of it from her brother and myself.”

“You forget I was school rivals with her,” Yennefer replied archly. “I am contractually obligated to give her a difficult time.”

“I am no longer your instructor,” Tissaia noted, cutting into her meat. “And therefore no longer obligated to prevent you two from attempting to tear one another’s throats out if you should feel the urge.”

Sabrina sipped her wine. “I am quite content. Yennefer may tease me all that she pleases, I dare to say I have won out of the two of us.”

“Oh? Won?”

“Which of us is happily married and mistress of herself and her home?” Sabrina noted.

“And which of us is the most powerful sorceress in England?”

“Not at my dinner table, please,” Triss said lightly.

Yennefer gave a slight, teasing half-bow to Triss, accompanied by a wink, and the talk turned determinedly towards other things until they retired for a game of quadrille in the sitting room.

“If either of you even consider using magic,” Tissaia warned, eyeing both Yennefer and Sabrina.

“I thought you were no longer our instructor?” Yennefer replied sweetly.

Tissaia arched her brow and Yennefer had to repress a shiver. Her natural inclination to push Tissaia, to press up against the lines that Tissaia laid down, now took on a new dimension and she felt reckless as she had not been in years, dipping her toe over the edge of them.

“How are your latest charges managing?” Sabrina asked.

At last! Talk of Aretuza! Yennefer might obtain an answer as to Calanthe’s visits.

“Quite well,” Tissaia replied. She laid down a card. “None so accomplished or unmanageable as either of you.”

“I was perfectly manageable, Miss de Vries.”

“I am well aware of all the times you would egg Yenna on behind my back, Mrs. Pankratz, in the hopes that she would land herself into hot water.”

“Goodness, how on earth did you survive the two of them without finding all of your hairs turned to gray?” Triss asked.

“Well, you arrived, and were a breath of sweet, fresh air.”

“Do not patronize her, Tissaia,” Yennefer said.

“I am not patronizing.”

“I know your tone quite well, do not think to play me.”

“The only thing I am attempting to play is my card, if you please.”

“I hope you are at last finding time for other diversions,” Triss said hastily, intercutting the standoff, and Yennefer was grateful for it. She had begun to find it difficult to breathe. “More personal time, for example, Miss de Vries?”

Yennefer was not above kicking Triss under the table. Triss, who was also not above such childish gestures, kicked her in return.

“Well, as you know, for I was already beginning to be in charge once you came to study with us, I have made the transition to focusing primarily on the senior students and on the paperwork and running of the school itself rather than purely instruction,” Tissaia said slowly, as if under a bit of bafflement at the question.

“Nay, Miss de Vries, I believe my wife means the sort of personal pursuits that are purely for one’s own pleasure, such as watercolors or gardening.”

Yennefer snorted. “Tissaia, gardening?”

Tissaia gave Yennefer a small smile over her hand of cards. “I might find it soothing, Yenna, do not judge me.”

“I can judge you all that I please, if you have ever gardened for pleasure in your life I shall became a nun.”

“Oh, dear, the worst sort of torture for you,” Sabrina declared. “How many lovers have you taken?”

“That is unfair, my darling, Yennefer has only had, ah…” Triss colored and suddenly grew very interested in the cards spread in front of her.

“You need not fear saying his name, Triss, I am aware the awkward position in which Geralt and I placed you with our ill-done consorting,” Yennefer reassured her.

“Rather than being a nun, you should become an Aretuza professor,” Sabrina went on. “I declare they conduct their lives much in the same manner.”

“I would not say so,” Tissaia observed, laying down another card. “We have our own private lives. I was certainly not in the habit of behaving as a nun would, if you will excuse the inadvertent pun.”

Yennefer could feel herself flushing. “You… took on lovers?”

Tissaia glanced up at her, a strange look in her eyes. “Well, I do not know if you are aware, Yenna, but corralling girls with powerful magical abilities does tend to wind one up quite a bit.”

“You never gave us even a hint!” Triss said, with far too great an air of delight in Yennefer’s humble opinion.

Tissaia rewarded her with a flat look. “You were still only girls, and my students, I was not about to share my affairs with a group of sixteen-year-olds.”

“Affairs?” Yennefer was unable to recognize her own voice. Multiple?

“Nothing that was long-lasting, or meant to be so,” Tissaia replied. “Minor, temporary diversions. The understanding was always that they were such. There was never any strong… feeling on either end.”

“I must confess, had you said such a thing to me years ago, I should have been all astonishment,” Triss said. “But now that I have my darling Sabrina I understand that it is the most composed of us who can at times feel the deepest.”

Sabrina gave Triss a look under her lashes that did, indeed, speak of a deep feeling, and Yennefer would have rolled her eyes if she was not frozen in a stare at Tissaia.

“I dare say so,” Tissaia said, the words a simple agreement, but as she gazed at her cards her eyes burned and Yennefer found herself both yearning for those eyes to rise up to look at her—and terrified of what should happen if they did.

There was no flirtation, and while they spoke of matters that certainly could not be considered in the realm of propriety, there was nothing detailed about it, nothing that could deserve the term of ‘graphic’ or even ‘descriptive’. And yet Yennefer felt as though her lungs were filled with smoke. Sabrina and Triss in their light flirtations and heavy looks that spoke of intimate understanding were no longer something to laugh at but an added layer to her pain, an envy she could not shake, and Yennefer had a sudden understanding of how it felt to be a rabbit caught in a snare.

And then—those eyes did raise themselves, and Yennefer, caught, nearly spoke allowed, _show me such deep feelings, teach them to me, let me drown in them and I will burn you in return—_

“Yenna?” Tissaia sounded concerned. “It is your turn.”

“Oh!” Yennefer snatched a card up blindly. “Pardon me.”

She might very well fail to survive this evening.

* * *

“My darling?”

“Mm?” Sabrina, who had been at precisely the halfway point between dreaming and waking, turned from her side onto her back so that she might gaze at her wife.

Triss’ skin shone in the moonlight. She looked a goddess, to Sabrina’s admittedly biased opinions.

“I’m afraid I’ve done a wicked thing.”

“You are incapable of wickedness, my sweet.” Sabrina yawned. “Whatever it is, I am certain it is no large thing and has caused little harm.”

Her eyes slid closed once more, only to have Triss poke her in the shoulder. “No, darling, it was really quite wicked of me and I am not at all sure it will come off.”

Sabrina pushed herself up onto the pillows so that she might be at the eye level of her wife. Triss bit her lip and did appear to actually be in some sort of distress. “What do you mean?”

“I told Yennefer a lie.” Triss’ voice was hushed and she sounded almost a little giddy, as if she were in awe of her own audacity. “You see—it appears that Mrs. Rhiannon and Miss de Vries are meeting privately, and Miss de Vries will not say why, at least not to Yennefer.”

“It sounds to me to be a private matter that does not concern Yennefer or anyone else if Miss de Vries and Mrs. Rhiannon do not wish it.”

“My darling, you must be aware, surely it cannot have escaped your notice the intimacy that Yennefer and Miss de Vries have fallen into these past few years.”

Sabrina had not, indeed, noticed, for it was not her nature to pay much attention to the personal lives of those around her so long as those lives did not infringe upon hers. She had her wife and her brother, her own little home to run and keep in order, and an extensive library. That was quite enough for her attentions.

“Do you mean to suggest that there is an understanding between them?”

She could not imagine someone such as Yennefer of Vengerberg, a woman who had a habit of seducing others if only to prove that she could, falling in love with their intimidating and at times frustrating headmistress. Had Tissaia and Yennefer not butted heads for the entirety of Yennefer’s school days? Had Tissaia not threatened, cajoled, lectured, and punished while Yennefer rebelled, destroyed, ignored, and undermined? Had they not spent a good number of years manipulating one another in an unholy struggle for power?

It was true that, after Yennefer had ruined the graduation and coming out at court for not only herself but nearly every one of her classmates and Tissaia herself, there had been several years without a correspondence between them. When she had returned to Aretuza after Stregobor’s death (and how that had factored in, Sabrina knew not) Yennefer had been changed, as had Tissaia. There had thereafter been a willingness in both of them to yield that had for so long been lacking.

They had been in friendship now for as many years as they had been at war as teacher and student. Perhaps there had been a renewal and a depth that Sabrina had failed to note.

“I do not believe there to be any understanding, no,” Triss confessed. “There is intimacy, and I suspect—Miss de Vries, I venture, knows her own mind. She may perhaps even know Yennefer’s as well. Yennefer does not, I think, know her own mind or Miss de Vries and so—with Miss de Vries and Mrs. Rhiannon meeting and Yennefer so concerned for it, I put forth an idea that I think to be quite out of the realm of sense in the hopes that it would at last assist Yennefer to—but you must understand my darling, I never expected her to truly believe me!”

Sabrina puzzled together Triss’ words. “…my sweet, do you mean to say that you… suggested to Yennefer that Miss de Vries and Mrs. Rhiannon have an understanding, in the hopes that it would—spur jealousy?”

Triss nodded.

The events of the evening now spun themselves into a different light and Sabrina fell back upon her pillows with a groan. “Triss, my dearest, my song, my sunlight. What chaos have you wrought upon us?”

Triss cleared her throat delicately. “Is this, perchance, a poor moment to mention that Geralt of Rivia is in love with your brother?”

Sabrina was grateful for Triss’ insistence on having a great number of pillows on their bed, for there was one conveniently at hand for her to seize and place over her mouth so that she might scream.

* * *

Jaskier had always readily confessed to being a greedy creature.

As a child, he would sneak sweets as often as he was able. He wanted seconds at dinner. He would not read by chapters but rather devoured a book in one sitting. The only time he had ever practiced strict moderation was with alcohol, for he had seen the path his mother took, and he and Sabrina both had taken precautions. In all else, however, he could heartily and happily proclaim himself a hedonist.

Never before had he thought of it as something of which he should be ashamed. He stole from no one, put no one out, and so what was there to prick him with guilt? Was life not to be enjoyed? What was the point of denial?

Now, though, traveling with Geralt, he found at last a way to feel shame for his greed.

The few days they had to make their return to Cintra were not nearly enough. Jaskier wanted each moment to stretch into an hour, each hour to turn into a day, each day to last for a week. Geralt was not one for conversation, which was hardly a surprise, but the silences were comfortable. At last Jaskier found his own patience and content with them, and when he did feel a desire to fill the silences with his own observations, Geralt seemed satisfied with listening.

He was, as Lambert had stated, a very good listener. There were times where Jaskier suspected Geralt had tuned him out, and then Geralt would utter a reply that showed he had been attentive for the entirety of Jaskier’s ramblings.

Jaskier had by now considered himself to be one of the few who understood Geralt’s moods well, and yet the past few days had shown him how much there was still left to learn. And he was greedy, unsatisfied, yearning for more.

They were obliged to stop at inns for the night, and while it would have been no uncommon thing for two men to share a bed, Geralt would always request that they have a room with two.

Jaskier understood the reasoning, but that did not prevent the pain of it. Now that he knew what it was to feel the heat of Geralt, the play of muscles, to actually press his hands to the miles of skin—

He was greedy, and lost. _I’m weak, my love, and I am wanting._

He rather hated himself for penning those lyrics. They were far too accurate and would continue to haunt him into his grave, he was sure of it.

To have the casual intimacy, the camaraderie, intertwined with the distance, was enough to drive him mad. The reminder of Kaer Morhen and the warmth of it, the relaxed air about Geralt’s shoulders, knowing how much his family valued him—it only rubbed salt into a constantly-open wound.

He both yearned and dreaded the return to Cintra. Both loved these moments with Geralt and hated them for presenting him with all he could not have.

The road split at last—he must turn left towards Lettenhove, Geralt must go on towards Cintra.

“Do you think Calanthe will have warmed towards you?” Jaskier asked. He could not have said why his voice remained soft. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder, or so it is said.”

“Hmm.” Geralt turned his gaze down the road. “I have learned to manage my expectations where she is concerned.”

Jaskier swallowed. There was nothing he could say to delay their parting, and he felt torn in two, wishing to flee and also desiring nothing more than to stay. “Well. I shall… see you around, Geralt.”

Geralt did not even look at him. “Hmm.”

Jaskier turned his horse to the left.

* * *

Geralt was not surprised to find Ciri eager to see him and Calanthe far less so. He was surprised to find an invitation from Yen awaiting him.

Calanthe was not the sort to waste her time, or anyone else’s, and Geralt was blunt as ever, and so it was a matter discussed shortly between them. She wished for Ciri to attend Aretuza, and for Geralt to make himself scarce. Geralt would not abandon Ciri, and argued Ciri would be less fortunate if she did not have him.

To have Ciri attend Aretuza rather than be always at Kaer Morhen, on that he was willing to concede. To be parted from her—never.

Yen’s invitation provided the distraction and distance that both he and Calanthe required after one of their little discussions, as Eist was so fond of calling them, and he dispatched himself to her home.

It was in a state of quiet that he had never before observed. Yennefer commanded respect but she was not fond of quiet or of long periods of solitude. Geralt detected at once a scent of sadness, perhaps something even darker than that, which only intensified the closer he drew to finding Yen.

She sat on a window seat, perched so that she might gaze across the fields towards Aretuza.

“You sent for me?”

Yennefer stood. She was carefully composed, as always, but she could not hide her scent or her heartbeat from Geralt. “I apologize. It was a moment’s weakness, a desire for—that self-destruction of which the two of us are so fond. Please go.”

He could well guess the sort of self-destruction she had held in her mind, and had he come to see her directly after parting from Jaskier, he might have indulged in her whim. Now, though, he was more clear-headed.

“What troubles you?”

Yennefer turned away. “It was a need for distraction, that is all. I was bored. It often happens. Think nothing of it.”

“Hmm.” Geralt quit the room, located a servant, and procured some apple juice.

Yennefer remained in the same spot when he returned. “Here.”

She sighed rather affectedly but accepted the drink. “Do not coddle me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He paused. “I know that neither of us like to discuss… our mistake. But while it was… I still know you, Yen. I know when you are upset. Talk to me.”

For a moment Yennefer did nothing more than sip at her juice, and he thought she would turn him away once more, but at last she stood and faced him. A fire blazed in her eyes, and yet for once it was a weak one—a blaze of defiance to mask an inner disquiet rather than the true burn of conviction.

“I have found myself in a—a position that perhaps you will understand.” She paused as her voice wavered, then knocked back the glass of apple juice as if it were the strongest of Russian brews, placing the emptied glass aside when she was finished. “I suspect, I fear—that my sentiments are not returned. I can hardly blame her, for I did not know of them myself until far too recently.”

 _Her._ “Who?”

“There can only be one person that springs to mind, Geralt. Who else could I not be certain to win over if I turned my mind to the task?”

Yennefer so hated to cry. He knew this of her. He obligingly pulled her in so that anything heard would be muffled and he could not see any evidence.

The last time she had clung to him in such a manner, it has been in the throes of desperate passion, after he had nearly died upon the mountain during the dragon hunt. This felt… better. It felt settled.

“I feel that I have sought everything—I wanted _everything_ —because I did not know what should make me happy, and so I thought if I had it all, surely at least a few of those things would do. And then I still felt so empty, so hollow—and now I know what it is, and how I have searched in all the wrong places, and I can never—” Yennefer cut herself off.

“Yen.” Geralt pulled away so that he might take her face in his hands. “It pained me to propose to Jaskier and to be rejected. But as much as I may have suffered from it, the rejection was nothing compared to the fear of unsurety. Go to her. Ask her.”

“I could not even appreciate you,” Yennefer whispered. “How can she think me—she could never—”

“Do not cast me in an unfairly bright light, Yen, I was equal to you in the destruction of our relationship. You can’t rebuild until you see the damage. Go to her.”

Yennefer glared at him for a moment longer, and then at last gave way. She accepted the handkerchief he passed her to wipe at her eyes, for once dispensing with magical means of tidying herself up. “It is odd, is it not? We make better friends than we ever did lovers.”

“Hmm.”

“Thank you.” Yennefer drew herself up. “If this is to end in flames, however, I shall blame you entirely.”

“I will keep that in mind.” He paused. “I do consider you a friend, Yen. A dear one.”

She clasped his hand with hers. “Good. For there is no getting rid of me.”

“Hmm.” He graced her with a rare smile, and Yennefer, albeit with shaking breath and wet eyes, smiled in return.

* * *

Jaskier had done a marvelous job of avoiding Cintra in the few days since his return, in spite of odd excuses by both Sabrina and Triss to attempt to send him there. But when Essi’s package arrived, he felt it would be rude to have a servant do the honors, and so undertook the errand himself to present a published copy of her works, titled _The Blue Pearl_ , to Ciri as a particular present.

He was not aware what Essi had done with Geralt’s present, if she had given it back to him as needless, used it to clear other debts her sister’s death might have incurred, or held onto it as a memento or in case of emergency—but it was clear from the title of her piece that she was attempting to use it to express her thanks to Geralt for his intervention against Marx, in a way that would not be known to any except for Geralt himself and the few others who knew the truth.

When he arrived at Cintra, it was to the immediate clashing of voices. Not those of Eist and Calanthe, for all who lived in the area had long since learned to tune out the arguments those two would unleash at one another, and not those of Geralt and Calanthe, either, for which Jaskier had been braced.

Rather, it was the voices of Calanthe and Cirilla.

“You cannot make me!” Ciri spoke with the authority of a princess. “I want to go with Geralt and you cannot stop me!”

This was accompanied by a soft thump that indicated a stomping of the foot.

“You are dangerously close to a level of impertinence that I shall not abide, young lady,” Calanthe replied. While her granddaughter was young enough to know only how to attack with the bluntness of a hammer, Calanthe had throughout the years sharpened her own voice into a blade of steel.

“I shall scream,” Ciri said, no idle threat as Jaskier well knew.

“Threatening others with magic is precisely the sort of behavior that had me condemning Aretuza in the first place and if you do not adopt a better attitude and sense of responsibility in regards to your talents, Cirilla, I shall allow you no magical instruction at all!”

“Calanthe—” There was Geralt.

“I’ll have none of your intervention, Witcher. It is your existence that has caused this entire calamity in the first place!”

Jaskier found himself entering the room before he even became aware of his feet moving across the floor. “Miss Rhiannon.”

All three figures turned to face him. Calanthe was at her desk, fingertips braced upon it as if she might launch herself bodily at Geralt, who had taken up a place near the window, while Ciri stood in the middle of the room, her entire tiny body vibrating, her hands clenched into fists.

“Jaskier!” Ciri spoke with both relief and pleased surprise. “What brings you to Cintra?”

“A present, for you.” He waved the pleasingly-wrapped book in the air, just out of reach of Ciri’s grasping fingers. “Perhaps you ought to go outside and open it, it is a fine pleasant day and this is precisely the sort of present for enjoying under the shade of a tree.”

He presented it to her and Ciri snatched it up. “Thank you, Jaskier!”

This expression of thanks was accompanied by a kiss upon the cheek, and then she fled with her freedom.

Calanthe rose to her full height. “This is my house, Mr. Pankratz. I do not appreciate you waltzing in and behaving as though you have the run of it.”

“Because you three were making such excellent headway,” Jaskier said cheerfully. “In any case, I was only here to gift Miss Rhiannon with her present, and so now you may return to your verbal flaying of Geralt, if you so wish.”

Geralt crossed the room to him, his right shoulder nearly brushing against Jaskier’s, facing the door. He stared into the distance, his jaw clenched. “Jaskier.”

“Do you mock me?” Calanthe asked. “Perhaps you ought to have gone into the profession of being a jester rather than a bard, you might have made more progress in your career.”

Jaskier neatly stepped to the side so that Geralt could not snatch him back in time. “If you wish to waste your breath on me, then by all means, do so. I would rather you exhaust yourself insulting me than continuing to abuse Geralt with your grief.”

“Jaskier…” Geralt warned through tight teeth.

“What occurs between the Witcher and myself is none of your business, even if you were his bard, which you are not.”

“Perhaps it is my business,” Jaskier replied, his temper beginning to rise. “It is no secret you blame him for the death of your beloved daughter. Geralt left England, left his child of destiny, and so you consider Pavetta and Duny’s deaths to be punishment. If that is so, then blame me. I am the reason he left.”

“ _Jaskier_.” Geralt’s voice was heavy with warning.

Jaskier had, once upon a time, been rather known in Oxenfurt for three things. The first had been the many people he bedded. The second had been his brilliant (in his opinion) and annoying (in the opinions of others) habit of excelling in tests and performances with little to no preparation beforehand. The third had been getting into fights in pubs.

Several of those fights had involved smashing chairs upon the heads of others.

He had abandoned that last habit, and indeed even the first, but now he felt that same defiant, itching rage returning, the one that could not and would not abide the slandering of an honorable person.

“I wounded Geralt, I drove him from England, I am the reason he left. By your own faulted logic, I am the reason your daughter is dead. There you are.” Jaskier spread his arms wide. “Abuse me, then, if you wish! Berate me.”

“You are not bound to Cirilla,” Calanthe retorted. “You are not the one who defied his destiny by leaving.”

“And so you will punish an honorable man who has done nothing other than stand by your daughter?”

A large hand seized his upper arm and Jaskier, even in spite of the circumstances, flushed hot all over.

“ _Jask_.” Geralt’s voice was as sandpaper. “This is not your fight.”

“I will not stand by while she abuses you.” Jaskier tugged his arm out of Geralt’s grasp. Or, well, rather, he made an attempt. It was not a successful one.

“He wishes to take her to Kaer Morhen,” Calanthe scoffed, circling around her desk like a lioness on the prowl. “To place my grandchild among all of those uncouth Witchers, to teach her to be as wild and violent as the rest of them—”

“You speak out of turn, Calanthe,” Jaskier said, ignoring propriety in his manner of address. “But given that you have now insulted Geralt in every possible way you can therefore have nothing more to say and so I do hope I can speak my own turn, which is to inform you that in spite of knowing him for thirteen years you have no idea what sort of man you seek to insult or the manner of men who live in Kaer Morhen. Perhaps if you could lower yourself from that high throne you have constructed you would be able to take a visit yourself and observe with your own two eyes.

“What Geralt has done for myself and for others for whom I care is above and beyond that which could be asked by any man, never mind one who owed me nothing and to whom I already owed a most humble apology. Everyone in the county is aware of his love for Cirilla and you persist in being the only one who cannot see it because you insist that you are the only one who could ever possibly feel the love and the pain that you feel.”

“Never,” Calanthe snarled, “have I been treated thusly in my entire life!”

“Forgive me,” Jaskier replied, sarcasm biting at the edgs of his tone, “I know you are used only to such rebukes from Eist, but I have no desire to bed you and therefore cannot temper my chastisements.”

“That’s enough,” Geralt said, and he tugged upon Jaskier firmly, but Jaskier planted his feet, forcing Geralt to choose between picking him up, dragging him out the door, or allowing him to remain where he was.

For the moment, it appeared that Geralt was choosing to allow Jaskier to maintain his dignity. Or at the very least a semblance of it.

“He protected Stregobor’s last victim,” Jaskier blurted out.

Silence of a solemnity and weight to which Jaskier had never before born witness fell upon the room.

Geralt’s fingers went slack around Jaskier’s arm.

Calanthe went pale as marble.

In for a penny, in for a pound, Jaskier supposed. “Stregobor was killed by the final girl he sought. A girl that Geralt protected, for months. When she was discovered in spite of his best efforts he ensured her dignity in death and he covered up the entire matter. He is the reason no one knows how Stregobor died, so that no one will know how she was slandered. He and that girl are the reason Ciri will be safe at Aretuza.”

Calanthe did not appear to even be breathing. At his side, Geralt stared at the floor, his eyes downcast, his shoulders rounded over as though he meant to hunch down and make himself appear smaller.

“If you wish for Cirilla to stay by your side, then by all means, have her study at Aretuza. It is in my humble opinion that Lady de Vries will do right by her. But allow Geralt to train her. Allow her to spend a month or two at Kaer Morhen.” Jaskier swallowed. “There is no one in this world with whom your granddaughter could be safer than with Geralt of Rivia.”

Calanthe remained in a state of shock. Jaskier turned, an act which caused Geralt’s fingers to fall away from his arm completely.

“I am sorry,” he whispered.

He had betrayed Geralt’s trust and revealed that which he had promised to keep to himself, that with which Geralt had entrusted him. Geralt had taken a risk in giving Jaskier such information and Jaskier had now exposed it, possibly to one of the last people on earth whom Geralt wished to know of it.

Jaskier raised his hand, instinct screaming at him to touch Geralt, to reassure in some way—but there was nothing to say or do that could reverse the damage he had now caused. He dropped his hand. “She deserved to know the full measure of your character, Geralt. But I am sorry.”

He bowed to Calanthe, and forced himself to walk out before he said or did anything even more stupid.

* * *

Yennefer braced herself as she took a portal to Aretuza while simultaneously attempting to appear as casual and comfortable as was her general demeanor when greeting Tissaia.

“Hard at work as ever, I see,” she announced when she found Tissaia in the state of performing the unenviable task of tallying up wages.

Her attempt at geniality, however, did not pass muster. Tissaia took one look up at Yennefer and promptly set down her pen. “You look as if you are in need of a brisk walk.”

“You are more in need of such a thing than I am. I am not the one with papers to grade and books to balance.”

Tissaia stood. “There is a matter that I must discuss with you anyhow, and the weather is fine. It will soon be summer. Come.”

Yennefer accepted the arm that was offered to her and accompanied Tissaia out onto the grounds. In the distance could be seen a few students practicing their spells and failing abysmally, and Yennefer could not stifle her fond smile in remembrance of her own school days.

“I heard that Geralt of Rivia has returned to the area,” Tissaia noted.

“Yes, he has his duty to Cintra, after all.”

“Have you seen him?”

Yennefer could not entirely control her tone as she said, “We spoke only a few days ago.”

“…you did not…” Tissaia appeared to be at a struggle for words, a rare occurence with her. “That is, you have not attempted to… renew…”

“No!” The word burst out of Yennefer before she could prevent it. “No, that is—no.”

“I would not judge you if you had.” Tissaia’s voice was soft. “We have all been fools for love, at least once in our lives.”

“I confess I thought myself greatly injured by him, once,” Yennefer replied. “But I was not in love with him—not in the way that I now understand love to be.”

“Ah.”

Silence fell between them, and it was a painful, jagged silence, one that Yennefer longed to break and yet did not know how.

After a time, walking slowly through the carefully cultivated hedges, Tissaia spoke. “There is a subject on which I have long wished to speak with you, but I could not strike upon the best time. I feared if I spoke too soon, too hastily, and then my plans came to naught—that I would only serve to drive a wedge between us, and I could not bear to risk such a thing, not with you.”

Yennefer closed her eyes. Here it was. The confession of her relationship with Calanthe. She must find a way to bear it.

“You are… a woman of intelligence, Yenna. I am sure you have noticed… that which I have striven valiantly to hide.” Tissaia stopped walking and turned to face her.

_She must find a way to bear it._

She could not bear it.

“Do not speak!” Her hands flew to Tissaia’s lips to silence them. “Think, please, think on what you are saying, what you are about to say, think of—what must change between us, think of how words once—once uttered cannot be taken back, please!”

Tissaia stood frozen, and then a look of brokenness entered her eyes, and she turned away. “…of course. If—if it will distress you, then we shall not speak of it.”

Oh, God, she had never seen such hurt in Tissaia’s eyes. Tissaia began to walk away, and Yennefer felt as though someone had sunk claws into her heart.

“Stay!” she cried out. “Stay, stay, say what you will. I am your friend, and I will hear you out as a friend.”

She had been selfish, and bullheaded, too many times to count—but not in this. In this she would be honorable. Tissaia had given her instruction, power, a home, patience, and care all of these years. She had been nothing but steadfast in spite of Yennefer’s many messes. Yennefer owed her a fair return.

“A friend.” Tissaia’s tone was both bitter and resigned. “Of course, you are my friend.”

To Yennefer’s great shock, for the first time in all the years she had known her, Tissaia’s eyes grew moist. She stepped forward and took Yennefer’s face in her hands with a tenderness that had Yennefer’s breath growing still in her chest.

“Yenna. My dearest Yenna, for that is what you are, and always will be—tell me.” Tissaia’s expression cracked and her voice went soft. “Have I no hope?”

The tightly-leashed emotion in Yennefer’s chest cracked open, unable to bear Tissaia’s soft touch. Tissaia’s thumbs stroked across her cheeks and Yennefer realized she was wiping away her tears.

“I cannot make speeches, Yenna.” Tissaia gave a small, self-deprecating smile. “If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more. But you know what I am. You hear nothing but truth from me. I have blamed you, and lectured you, and you have borne it as no other person could have borne it.”

Yennefer tried to speak, but only a small sob came out. Tissaia seemed to take this as a rejection, and began to step away, and that would not do. Yennefer grabbed Tissaia’s hands wildly, shaking all over. “I was such a disappointment to you, I have done nothing but cause you trouble all these years—” She hiccupped. “I know I am not who you wished me to be when you brought me to Aretuza, I know that I have been—reckless and haughty and—”

“All I want, Yenna, is for you to be the best version of yourself, and to be happy. Sternness is my way, I cannot help it, but if you only knew—how soft I wished to be with you—but I could not.” Tissaia’s eyes grew dark. “I dared not let a mote of it slip or I would reveal all. I cannot fix on the hour, or the circumstances, that laid the foundation. I was in the middle before I knew I had begun. And suddenly you were to me not a student but a desired equal, you—”

Tissaia broke off, as if impatient with herself. “You are not a disappointment to me. You are a joy. My greatest joy. My dearest.”

The image of the woman before her blurred as Yennefer gave herself over to tears, and while it meant she tasted salt on Tissaia’s lips an instant later, the kiss was none the harsher for it.

* * *

Jaskier returned to Lettenhove by way of the servant’s entrance, and remained out of sight for the rest of the day, absconding to rooms long abandoned and forgotten so that neither of his sisters might discover him.

These rooms had the furniture covered in white sheets, so that they might be best preserved until such time as they would need airing out, and among such ghostly figures, their true natures hidden behind the pale cloth, he felt that his environment matched his state of mind.

He was successful in hiding from Sabrina and Triss for three days, after which point Sabrina, who knew him far too well for his own good, managed to track him down.

“We have received a most interesting letter from Cintra,” she said, with no sympathy for the fact that she interrupted him in the middle of performing a very forlorn ballad for the covered furniture in the nursery.

Jaskier could not hold in his wince. “Ah, Sabrina, if…”

She held it out to him. “Mrs. Rhiannon and Mr. Tuirseach have announced their engagement and impending nuptials.”

“What!?” Jaskier snatched the letter from her hands. “And here we all thought we should never see the day—oh fuck I think I owe Triss money.”

“We all owe Triss money on this wager,” Sabrina replied.

Jaskier turned the announcement, for such it was, over and over in his hands. He could not help but feel a certain elation on behalf of Eist Tuirseach, a man whose patience and constancy had at last been rewarded.

“There was also this, addressed to you.” Sabrina handed him a second letter.

Jaskier’s heart seized up, for he recognized the handwriting in an instant.

He took the letter from her and handed her back the wedding announcement. Sabrina, with an air of knowing that Jaskier liked not in the least, quit the room.

Jaskier could admit, at least to himself, that his fingers trembled as he opened the letter. He knew better than anyone Geralt’s eloquence when it came to putting pen to paper. The last time he’d received a letter from the Witcher, it had detailed (with great restraint on Geralt’s part) the ways in which Jaskier had been an unmitigated arse. What would he find this time?

From the first, he noticed this letter was much shorter than the last. Of course, it did not take anyone long, especially not one known for arriving quickly to the point, to inform someone to fuck off and end their acquaintance.

But that was not what the letter contained at all.

_I can no longer listen in silence._

_When I left England, it was with only the hope that you would come to understand my actions, however mistaken they might have been, and perhaps find a way to respect me. When I returned I had no intention of repeating the sentiments that were so disagreeable to you, even though my own wishes and affections had not changed. Not until your words to Calanthe allowed me to hope as I had not dared before—that I had made proper amends to you and that I might even, in fact, have earned your warmth._

Jaskier found himself sitting down. He could no longer feel his legs.

_And so I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me that I am not too late, that such precious feelings are gone forever. I offer myself to you with a heart even more your own than when you broke it over a year ago._

The letter was signed with a simple initial, as if Geralt had been unable to come to a proper conclusion for his words and so had sent the letter off before his courage failed him.

Jaskier rose on shaking legs and shoved the letter into his pocket, snatched up his lute, and dashed down the stairs.

“Sabrina!” he yelled. “Sabrina! Triss! I’m off to Cintra! Don’t bother waiting up!”

“Julian?” Sabrina sounded quite alarmed. “We have the horses out in—Julian! You are not walking all the way—”

“I walked all the way to Netherfield for you, I can very well walk to Cintra!” Jaskier snatched up his coat. “As I said, don’t bother waiting up!”

“What in the f—”

The rest of his sister’s words were drowned out in the slamming of the door as he all but dashed out the front entrance.

When he arrived at Cintra he was, admittedly, quite winded, and should have preferred a horse if possible, but it was no matter now. He had arrived, and since it was summer everywhere was quite dry and while his coat was a bit dusty there was no mud to make a sight of him—and he rather desired to look his best right at that moment.

He found the entire estate in an uproar, as servants, now given leave, dashed about to prepare for the wedding and the subsequent transition of Mr. Tuirseach’s belongings to Cintra, for he would most certainly be moving into Cintra—after all the idea of Calanthe Rhiannon removing herself from her long-treasured home was absurd.

Jaskier heaved in his breaths, gazing about in a whirl, realizing only just now that he had no earthly idea where Geralt would be or if he even still remained at Cintra after the last row with Calanthe.

The servants, who had a to-do list the length of the distance from London to Paris and knew on which side their bread was buttered, were of no help, ignoring Jaskier in favor of continuing their work.

He was about to despair and tear apart the estate room by room when a flash of blonde hair and blue fabric appeared in his line of vision.

“Jaskier? Jaskier!” Ciri flew at him. “Oh, Jaskier, you must thank Miss Daven for the lovely, lovely book, it is so helpful, and so kind of her, and—oh you must know of grandmother and Eist at last, do you know quite a few people owe me money for I told them, including Mousesack and Geralt—and Mousesack, speaking of him, he has arrived only just now, and—oh yes I must tell you, unless Geralt has told you already, but I am to study at Aretuza and Geralt will be allowed to tutor me and I can visit Kaer Morhen—”

“Ciri.” He grasped her shoulders. “Dear, darling little cub. If you do not tell me where that Witcher of yours is right this instant, I am liable to break my lute over someone’s head, which would be a shame, because it is a very valuable lute, and very expensive, and I suspect Geralt gifted it to me, so could you please, _please,_ tell me where he is.”

“Oh.” Ciri tilted her head, and then pointed behind her. “He’s out the back with Mousesack.”

“You are an angel.” He tore through the estate.

“Geralt says I am a hellion!”

“That as well!”

Geralt was, indeed, out the back with Mousesack. “Ah, Jaskier!” The druid smiled at him. “It has been far too—”

“Mousesack if you please I really need to speak to Geralt alone,” Jaskier blurted out in a horrible rush, words tumbling over one another.

He could not stop staring at Geralt who, as if transfixed, remained frozen in place, his face unreadable.

Mousesack glanced from one man to the other. “Well. If it is urgent… I am sure Calanthe needs me for something or other.”

He bowed to the both of them and then departed. They were, at last, alone.

Jaskier swallowed. His voice and hands shook. “I am in receipt of your letter.”

“Hmm.” Geralt sounded as though he could barely manage even that much of a sound.

“I…” Jaskier fiddled with his lute strap. “You gifted this to me, did you not? That was why—you thought I would—reject it, if I knew—”

Geralt nodded once, the movement jerky.

“But Essi,” Jaskier burst out. “You gave her the pearl, you hunted down Marx for her sake, you—”

“Not for her sake,” Geralt interrupted, his voice a hoarse whisper. “For yours. I thought—surely you must know it was all for you.”

Jaskier now found himself to be the one without a voice.

“You—said she was as a sister to you,” Geralt added haltingly. “I knew you would not be satisfied—you blamed yourself for Marx, I—I had to set it right.”

He had the appearance of a man waiting for an axe to fall, a blow to land, and Jaskier realized that nowhere in his words had he given Geralt leave to understand that his sentiments were returned. “Geralt, I—I am yours, and I have been yours, from the day you returned to England—and grown to be even more so every day that has passed since.”

Geralt blinked slowly at him, as if he needed a moment to actually comprehend that what Jaskier said was real, and true, and not a passing dream.

“While you were gone I—fuck.” Jaskier ran a hand through his already-windswept hair, messing it up even further. “Even before, when we first met, and every meeting since, I was already—I desired you and I did not wish it, I fought against it, told myself I hated you but if you had touched me then, Geralt, I would have been lost and I have been lost ever since you gave me that letter and I knew the truth of your character. I spent a year cursing myself for ruining my chances with you and I have spent these months telling myself I had no reason to hope and—please stop me or I fear I am going to keep rambling until the end of time.”

Geralt made an odd, fond sort of noise. “Are you… certain?”

“Certain.” Jaskier’s voice cracked and the hysteria of his emotions began to properly leak through. “Certain? How about you come over here and kiss me and I’ll show you just how certain I am capable of being.”

Geralt parted his lips, then glanced away, his fingers flexing at his sides. “If I—if I do—that.” He looked up, and Jaskier saw that the Witcher’s eyes were almost completely black without the aid of any potions, the golden irises nothing but thin glowing rings around his pupils. “If I kiss you, I won’t stop.”

Jaskier inhaled sharply, shakily, and felt as though he were breathing fire. “Geralt. Kiss me.”

Geralt crossed to him in two strides.


	20. Chapter 20

There was a part of Geralt that remained keenly aware of his positioning on the back porch of Cintra, where he and Jaskier might very well be observed by any member of the household including servants, their passionate and altogether improper embrace open to witness.

He was aware, and yet awareness did not necessarily equal concern, and Geralt could not bring himself to care.

He wanted to press himself into the very heart of Jaskier, to rub his scent into every inch of the man so that it was embedded in Jaskier’s bones, until they were both so intertwined that he could hear the echo of Jaskier’s breath in his blood.

Jaskier kissed him with a wild desperation that said more than words ever could have of the state of fear in which the bard had been dwelling, and Geralt could well understand it, for he had been much in the same state himself, without hope, without certainty, without cure.

The bard was as soft and as sweet as Geralt had thought, in those moments when he had dared to allow himself to imagine what it would be like to have Jaskier in his arms. Jaskier tangled his fingers in Geralt’s hair, his other hand occupied with holding tightly onto one of the straps of Geralt’s armor as if he was still halfway convinced that Geralt would melt away into nothingness if Jaskier loosened his grip even the slightest.

Geralt could have occupied himself quite contentedly for far longer, except that Jaskier was merely human, and could not hold his breath for nearly so long as Geralt. He obligingly pulled back—but only enough so that he might rest his forehead against Jaskier’s, his arm still secured around Jaskier’s waist in case the bard got any foolish ideas about slipping away.

For once, Jaskier himself appeared to be at a loss for words. The bard said nothing, only rested himself against Geralt, a slight trembling in his form the only giveaway as to his state of mind. Geralt wished to drown himself in the man’s smell, in the giddy happiness he could practically taste in the air. There was no doubt in his mind that he would not be waiting until the wedding night to learn the bard completely—even now it took all the strength of will in his character to keep himself in check.

It belatedly occurred to Geralt that he had made no formal proposal. “Jask.”

“I believe you said,” Jaskier replied, his mouth when not speaking making a rather compelling argument for other pursuits, “that once you started you should not stop, and this, my dear Witcher, constitutes as stopping.”

He did have a very persuasive tongue, and Geralt was easily swayed by his argument for several minutes more until he remembered himself. “Jaskier. I didn’t propose.”

“Of course you did.” Jaskier began a thorough exploration of Geralt’s jaw.

“Not properly.” It was implied in his letter and understood in Jaskier’s own response and actions but he had not made a formal proposal or received a formal acceptance.

He curled his fingers into Jaskier’s coat and used the grip to tug the bard backwards just enough so that he would not remain tempted by Jaskier’s pouting mouth. Jaskier did pout very prettily, but obligingly fell silent with a raised brow indicating his desire for Geralt to get on with it.

At last, Geralt repeated the words that had brought him the answer that first drove him from England, words he knew now would receive an altogether altered response. “Will you partner with me, as my bard? And will you marry me?”

Jaskier’s smile rivaled the sun. “Yes, to both. Now then.”

Geralt allowed himself to be drawn back in once more, determined to be true to his word and not stop as he had, indeed, promised Jaskier only a few minutes earlier.

“Oh, _ew!_ ” Ciri shrieked. “Would you all stop kissing? It’s disgusting! I am scarred! I am young and impressionable! You are all deplorable!”

* * *

Yennefer smiled up at the ceiling, a cat that had consumed a dozen canaries and an entire bottle of cream.

Tissaia had been most vexing, nay, infuriating, in her insistence that nothing untoward occur between them until the matter of Cintra and Aretuza were settled and Yennefer was properly joined with her in marriage.

Wheedling did not work. Appeals to logic, the recounting of how long it should be until the wedding, the facts of their previous affairs rendering both of them far from virginal, fell upon deaf ears. Very determined and, in Yennefer’s opinion, tantalizing attempts at seduction were met with firm rebuke.

It was entirely unfair. Tissaia had given herself years to grow accustomed to her desire and so found it a little thing to resist Yennefer for only a few months more, so long as Yennefer’s heart was secured. Yennefer, unused to her want for Tissaia, found herself in the horrible position of having to simultaneously come to terms with it while being denied those most intimate of gestures, and she had never been in the habit of doing so before when she had someone in mind whom she wished in her bed.

At last—at _last_ —all was settled. Tissaia had, with careful and subtle maneuvers, convinced Calanthe that Yennefer would make the best co-headmistress, and Calanthe had duly installed Yennefer as her candidate. The council could hardly refuse, backed into a corner and unable to do anything in refute except for lick their wounds in private. A schedule had been worked out between Aretuza and Kaer Morhen for Cirilla, the banns had been put up, and as of yesterday afternoon, Yennefer and Tissaia had spoken their vows.

Yennefer privately, and rather sourly, was of the opinion that she might have been married sooner if there had not been three other affairs to handle. Calanthe was not to be upstaged in her second marriage, although her desire for a large ceremony was counteracted by Eist’s desire to get the whole thing over with as quickly as possible, even if it was only so that he might have the pleasure of using the phrase ‘my wife’ when discussing Calanthe with others. Miss Daven and Eskel of Kaer Morhen insisted upon a simple, private affair, but given Yennefer’s own involvement in Miss Daven’s ascension to a proper bard, she could hardly afford to pass up the invitation to attend when presented to her.

Geralt and Jaskier had vanished and reappeared in Gretna Green and honestly, Yennefer commended them for it. Even if Sabrina was now organizing a proper reception and ball for them out of pure spite.

Yennefer, who had caught them sparring with things other than swords in the Cintra stables, and Triss, who had interrupted a rather unconventional vocal practice, were both of the opinion that Sabrina Pankratz could fuss about it all she wanted. Having the two men squirreled away on a proper honeymoon was the only solution to maintain the sanity of all in their acquaintance or near vicinity.

But now it was all done! All preparations, ceremonies, and matters of business were finished. And Yennefer, who could feel the after effects of a very long and thorough night of carnal study, considered herself to be among the most content of women.

Except regarding the unavoidable fact that she was rather alone in her marital bed.

Yennefer sat and gazed about her. While she had only recently in their long acquaintance become aware of her particular emotions towards Tissaia, she had known the woman long enough to have a good understanding of where she might be and what would be occupying her.

Although to be occupied by anything or anyone else when Yennefer was wonderfully stretched out in bed in the manner of Eve, felt rather close to an insult.

She rose, found a dressing gown which she knew by the dark teal coloring to be Tissaia’s and not her own, and dispatched herself to find her wayward wife.

Tissaia was, as Yennefer had suspected, in her office. She had managed to dress herself and do up her hair without waking Yennefer, which was a feat in and of itself and a testament to how thoroughly worn out Yennefer had been, and now occupied herself with paperwork.

It had been decided, after much discussion, that Yennefer should be in charge of the younger girls, those of Cirilla’s age who, as Yennefer herself had once been, would be in a state of fear or frustration, with both themselves and the world at large. Tissaia would focus on the paperwork and the instruction of those closest to graduation.

Yennefer paused in the doorway. How many times had she interrupted Tissaia at work in such a manner? How many times had she swept in, desperate for Tissaia’s attention, wanting herself to occupy every inch of the woman’s mind, without even understanding why?

“Thrown over for budgeting,” she noted aloud. “How quickly the bloom of infatuation fades!”

Tissaia did not favor her with a glance. “I ought to have known you would be insatiable.”

Yennefer crossed to her and slid with an air of casual possessiveness into Tissaia’s lap, allowing her robe to fall a little ways open most becomingly, in her opinion. “Surely school matters can wait one day more. You were married only yesterday.”

Tissaia paused for a moment in her work—only a small moment, but Yennefer caught it, and the tremble in Tissaia’s fingers as she did so. She smiled wickedly and plucked Tissaia’s hand up by the wrist, placing it where her robe had fallen open.

“Am I not far more enticing?”

Tissaia’s eyes burned as she gazed at the spot where her hand began to work against Yennefer’s skin. “Do you have any idea how many times I have nearly ravished you on this desk?”

Yennefer undid her tie and the robe fell open completely as Tissaia’s mouth followed the path of her fingers. “Why would I be reduced to imaginings when you can show me?”

Tissaia’s other hand parted her thighs and Yennefer was forced to admit, although she would never say such a thing aloud, that perhaps Tissaia had been right—that this, at least, was well worth the months of waiting.

* * *

Jaskier was well aware that when he returned to Lettenhove, Sabrina would hang, draw, and quarter him.

Geralt (his Witcher, his _husband_ ) bit at a particular spot on Jaskier’s neck and Jaskier, when he had done with his fall into euphoria, could not help but smugly conclude that this was worth whatever punishments his sister could devise for their having eloped.

Normally, he should not have risked Sabrina’s wrath, even if it was rather inconvenient to be obliged to wait weeks to marry a man he had nearly allowed to take him on the balcony of Cintra (poor, dear Ciri). After the behavior of their parents he had grown rather allergic to the idea of propriety but he could also appreciate that there were some societal rules he should be careful not to flout too flagrantly.

However—there had been the whole business with Ciri and Kaer Morhen and Aretuza and Calanthe and all the rest. Then there had been Calanthe and Eist’s marriage which, as the first announced, was the first to be celebrated. Essi and Eskel had their wedding at Lettenhove since it was decided the estate was far better prepared to host guests than Kaer Morhen and so there had been that entire business.

And _then_ Yennefer and Tissaia had the audacity to announce their engagement, and that had been the juncture at which Jaskier had lost all patience.

At the very least, Geralt had not been the sort to force Jaskier to wait until marriage. It had more been the fact that they could never secure a private moment alone that had Jaskier ready and willing to tear his own hair out with frustration.

Triss—who truly did not deserve such an experience—entering the library at precisely the wrong moment had been the final straw. Jaskier had been in the middle of allowing Geralt to ruin him on a desk (and ruin the desk as well in the process) and he had not appreciated the interruption.

Geralt had dug his heels in a bit on the whole eloping to Scotland business, concerned for the happiness of their assembled family and friends should they miss out on such an affair, but in Jaskier’s humble opinion, none of their family and friends wanted to be around for what would happen once he could legally do whatever he pleased to Geralt’s person, and he informed Geralt so in many persuasive and relentless tactics until Geralt saw the wisdom of his plan and agreed.

Given that he was currently gazing up at the ceiling of the room they had rented and seeing absolutely nothing as his skin buzzed with the high of completion and Geralt was in the act of catching his breath beside him, he was quite certain that Geralt had no cause to regret their course of action.

The Witcher, always aware of Jaskier’s lesser stamina, said nothing of further rounds and merely occupied himself with burying his nose in Jaskier’s throat, a satisfied purr reverberating through the man’s chest. The discovery that Geralt purred when happy had been nothing short of a delightful revelation and Jaskier sought to cause such a reaction however and with as much frequency as he was able.

He stroked his fingers through Geralt’s soft, although slightly sweat-dampened hair, and relished the weight of the other man on top of him. Jaskier could not have said which fact pleased him more—his career as a bard at last secured, or the irrefutable proof that he loved, and was loved in equal measure, in a manner and to a depth he had once thought impossible.

In only a short couple of months it would be the same time of year when he had received Geralt’s first proposal, and then the letter, that had sent everything in his world spinning. How his sentiments had changed!

Although, the recollection of the letter did call to mind one final question, a question he had completely forgotten about and one that he would not have thought to bother with if it were not that all else was so settled between them.

“You’re thinking rather loudly,” Geralt mumbled, his voice rich with the tone of satisfaction and pleasant exhaustion.

Jaskier skimmed his fingertips over the long lines of red he had driven into Geralt’s skin only a few minutes before, the marks already fading with Witcher healing but, for now, a contrast to the myriad of scars that marked his husband’s skin. All other such lines were dealt by an enemy with deadly force. Jaskier’s marks were those of adoration.

“It is only a small thing,” he admitted. “Regarding your first attempt at winning me over.”

Geralt braced himself on his forearms so that he hovered over Jaskier and was able to gaze upon his face. “Do you refer to my ill words, or the letter that followed?”

“The latter.”

Geralt’s brow furrowed with confusion and Jaskier pressed his thumb to the spot to smooth it over.

“There was a particular line in your letter that haunts me,” Jaskier admitted. “It was the one line that I could not read.”

Geralt went still, as though even after all of this, he was still afraid to reveal too much of his heart—that Jaskier might find it too deep and too much, and would retreat and reject it. “It was—I realized that—it was an imposition.”

“An imposition.” Jaskier pressed the tips of his fingers to Geralt’s jaw and turned his head so that he might look into Geralt’s eyes. “There is no such possible thing between us now. What did it say?”

Geralt’s gaze dropped down between them. “I remain yours always,” he quoted.

Jaskier had thought the Witcher had run out of ways to steal his breath, and yet once again he found himself at a loss for air. If only Grealt had kept that line in! If only he had ignored propriety and left it on the page—!

But Jaskier could not blame the man for wishing to withhold a bit of his heart after he had exposed so much of it in that letter. “My darling Witcher,” he whispered.

Geralt’s gaze rose to meet his.

“I can think of no higher honor.”

Geralt’s face took on a look of such tenderness that Jaskier almost wished the rest of England could behold it and see what softness his Witcher held in his heart, but then the desire passed, for he was still a greedy man and wanted none else to see this expression except for himself. This particular tenderness was for Jaskier alone, and as Geralt pressed him into the mattress once more, he made a thorough demonstration of what other ways in which that tenderness could be expressed.

While Jaskier regretted nothing, he did feel it only fair to pen a short few lines to his sister to beg forgiveness, if only to possibly circumvent his own death at her hands upon his return to Lettenhove. It was well into the night when he found the time to compose the letter, for until that point his fingers and all else were otherwise occupied. At last, however, even a Witcher’s stamina must fail, and so it was he left his drowsing wolf in bed and took to the small desk to ease Sabrina’s fury.

_My dear baby sister,_

_As you are by now well aware, I have forsaken propriety once again to be married over the anvil. Consider it a mercy to the servants, who shall now have a few days to breathe before preparing for a second reception. I suspect Lady Yennefer shall also thank me, and we should all be grateful for that which keeps her in good spirits._

_Be assured that we shall return to Lettenhove at our earliest convenience, most likely when I am able to walk again. How soon that will be, I know not, for I have long considered walking to be overrated._

_Such jokes aside, Sabrina—I know that if logic fails to appeal to your mercy, then perhaps my happiness shall. My dear sister, I am the happiest creature in the world. Others have said so before, but none with such justice._

_Kiss your sweet wife for me._

_Love always,_

_J_

Geralt stirred behind him, golden eyes blinking slowly as he stared at Jaskier. “Hmm?”

“Writing to Sabrina,” Jaskier informed him. He folded up the letter, addressed and sealed it, and left it resting on the desk to deliver to the postman in the morning.

Geralt wordlessly stretched out a hand for him, and Jaskier—as he had for the lift into the carriage so long ago, and for their first dance together even farther back than that—took it, and allowed Geralt to draw him in.

For as always, when engaged with Geralt, the rest of the world was nonexistent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My humble thanks, dear readers, for undertaking this journey with me. I considered including much more explicit details of the physical intimacy between our two lovely couples, but felt I was already straining the bonds of the Regency style and so restrained myself. Perhaps I shall at a later date pen a few explicit scenes as a bonus and post them as a separate project.
> 
> Thank you all for your kind and detailed comments. This has been a long-desired project of mine and I'm delighted to find others as enthusiastic about it as I am.


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